The Chronicles of the Aftermath
by IWantAPetBadger
Summary: In wake of the second devastating defeat in less than 50 years, the Axis are split up to live under the separate houses of the Allies.  Kept from their land and people, the Nations struggle to heal both body and soul.  GerIta focused. Rated T for safety
1. Chapter 1 Separation

**Author's Note: Ha! As I said (if you've been following Toxic Toast) that I could be coming up with a Hetalia FanFic- and here it is! This is my first attempt to write anything that I purposely wanted to weave romance into, but it's the "distance makes the heart grow stronger" mixed in sort. So! Give me feedback as to how you think it's going. Loosely based on history (very loosely). I do not own Hetalia.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 1: Separation**

His home had been destroyed. But it was his own fault. If he hadn't been swayed by the wild dreams of that madman, it wouldn't have come to this. His people, broken and homeless, and _if only_ he had seen the monster for what he was, they may have been poor, but they would have had a roof over their heads.

This is what he saw: rubble. Rubble that had once been welcoming homes that offered refuge from the cold. Crumbling remains of workshops that once secured meals for the families of his hardworking people. All gone. And it was all his fault. He became too begrudged, too proud, too greedy, and he lost it all. He asked too much of his people, and in his vengeance, ordered his people to give up their humanity and turn on each other, and then on the outside world.

And that is when Germany's eyes were open but blinded by tears. It was when he saw his people covered in their own blood and searching for any memory of what it was like _before all of this_ that Germany realized how much it took to stand up. His shoulders and the muscles of his back were fluttering like a moth with tattered wings. Thirsty, so thirsty, Germany swallowed saliva that may have as well been watery, drying clay. Arms that could have been melded with lead and legs giving out like the tresses of a forsaken barn.

"Prussia… Bruder?" Germany's voice was so cracked that although he called for is older sibling, it was little more than a whisper.

"Bruder…" He was worried… what had happened to that albino lout? _'Surely,'_ Germany prayed, _'_They_ wouldn't think of Prussia's_ lack of pigmentation_ as an impurity?'_ Unaware of himself, Germany brought the fingernails of his right hand to the underside of his left wrist, and began gouging away at the heavy scab he created for himself ever since _those places_ began. Gouging away where the serial numbers had been tattooed on his _innocent_ people, trying to hide the darkening strip of skin from his own guilt, and trying to preserve it as a scar to permanently remind himself of _what he did._ _'Please, DEAR GOD, not my Burder. Don't let him be taken from me. Please don't- please, just don't-'_

"West, stop it." A strong, frightened grip snapped Germany out of his torment. Germany stared at the appearance of his brother in silence. "West," his Bruder spoke in softened tones, "You shouldn't hurt yourself like that." Prussia pried Germany's left had from his right and held it as though it were made of tissue-thin glass. "Sit down; at least let me bandage it."

"But-"

"_No,_" Prussia's voice turned stern. In the silence that followed, the elder brother dug around in his jacket for a clean handkerchief. Germany watched, dimly holding up his hand where his brother left it, vaguely aware of the trickle of blood sliding down his arm. He began to feel lightheaded. When Prussia spoke again, it was again tinged in melancholy as he wrapped the younger brother's wound. "There's nothing we can do about them now, West, and you scarring yourself won't help." Germany watched with fascination how a hand could encircle something with a white cloth, how that cloth never completely overlapped on itself, and how the red of the blood spread across the weave. He barely registered the quiet _whizzt_ as his brother tied off the bandage. "Get some rest," Prussia whispered, and Germany nodded in obedience as his brother guided him to a bit of fallen wall that was relatively clear of debris.

* * *

><p>Prussia sat in silence next to his brother, watching as the younger Nation's breathing slowed and deepen in the refuge of sleep. He cursed himself for being such a lousy older Bruder. He hated himself for not being the grown up one when it was Germany who was so much more naïve than he. He was the older brother who never bothered to learn from his mistakes, and if he had, he could have kept his little Bruder from making this Hell-born mistake. He should have picked up on all the warning signs.<p>

From behind him, he heard the scatter and scrape of rubble beneath two heavily-booted feet sliding over them and the clatter as the debris bounced off a metal pipe.

"Russia." Prussia said, not bothering to turn around.

"Ah, so you recognize me, da?" The giant, half-mad Nation chirped. "Funny, because it was not you whom broke the non-aggression pact they signed with me."

Scarlet eyes flared angrily as Prussia spun to face the triumphant man. "Don't you _dare _hurt him," he snarled.

Russia swaggered closer, swinging his pipe to and fro in the dust. "You want me to not crush his head in, da?" He was looking everywhere but at Prussia, humming to himself what could have been the tune of a child's song.

Russia was by far the bigger nation, which meant that in a one-on-one, Prussia would have more agility, but behind him lay Germany, who couldn't have protected himself if he wanted. Prussia stood his ground and braced for the onslaught. "_Don't you __**dare…**__"_

Russia charged, wildly flailing his weapon over his head. For a moment Prussia stood paralyzed as saw the rabid eyes and a grin that stretched across the Nation's face like a chasm in the earth. It was only when the pipe was swung down that Prussia acted to block it. He crossed is arms above him, and heard the crunch of the bones in his forearms before he felt the impact. The blow knocked him backwards, shocking Germany as he accidently elbowed his younger brother in the gut.

"Bruder…" Prussia heard his brother gasp through the pain, disoriented himself. Cold steel was looped around the back of his neck, and Prussia's field of vision was consumed by the presence of the insane Nation's feral face.

"I am not to touch your brother, da? Then what will the penitence be? He lied so cruelly to me, da."

Prussia swallowed hard, but he didn't think twice about his answer. "Take me, then, you bastard. I'm not letting West be your dog."

Russia then patted Prussia hard on the head. "Ahh, really? What a courageous big brother little Germany has." The pat turned into a seizing of white scalp, and Prussia was lifted off the ground before being hurled toward it once again. Russia smiled innocently. "But your eyes still betray your fear. It is good, then. It's time to say good-bye, dog."

"No! Bruder!" Germany staggered up and attempted to tackle the Russian, who knocked him aside with a single bone-crushing crack to his right arm. Germany stumbled to his knees, weak from blood loss and pain as Russia delivered several more blows with the pipe.

Prussia rose shaking to his feet, and attempted to jump Russia in the hopes of making the larger man loose balance. It only barely worked and the Russian recovered, who knocked the smaller Nation off him and turned, violet eyes burning with fury. "Stupid man, don't you know your place?" Prussia couldn't register the speed at which the pipe was brought down on his skull.

* * *

><p>Something was happening. Germany's head pounded. His eyelids were sealed shut. "<em>Mon Dieu…<em>" "Shit, man, this is bad…" "Watch out, we'll all have to lift him at once…" Germany groaned and tried to move, but his body was too heavy. "Easy, Dude. Don't move." "The stretcher, it is ready…" Germany's head swam, but could hear the shuffling of many feet. "All ready? On three. One, two…" As strong hands lifted him from the ground, Germany's body sagged limply, and he let out a weak whine from a new wave of dizziness. He was settled back down, a warm hand pressed against his forehead. Germany flinched a little. "Dude, he's so cold…." Germany felt the tug of sleep take him again, but as he sunk into the darkness, he could still feel a coat being tucked around him.


	2. Chapter 2 Regrets

**Author's Note: I'm planning on updating sooner than I was/am with Toxic Toast, since this is the idea in my head right now- I guess this is my way of dealing/avoiding shit I should be doing right now, but call it self medication. Depression sucks- I'll be frank. Anyhoo- APH is not mine, etc.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 2: Regrets**

"Let me guess," England sighed heavily as he collapsed with just as much weight into a free chair, cradling a mug of black coffee in his hands. "America's being the hero again, isn't he?" The three Allies had set up base in a couple of relatively in tact rooms of a half-bombed boarding school. America's voice trailed to where the others sat (_"Crap, Germany, what'd you do to your wrist?"_)

"_Oui._ He may be obnoxious, but when it comes down to it," France's voice was just as worn as his long-time rival, "he always has it in himself to care." He, too, was sipping a 'cup o' Joe' as America would call it, holding it low on the mug and swirling the drink around as though it were a dry red. Perhaps it was a comfort thing, because the coffee was old and of a vile roast. But out here, it was the best they had.

England broke the silence that followed. "Hey, France-"

"Hm-?"

"Don't tell America I said this- because it's not like his ego needs to any bigger- but I think his boss back then-"

"Wilson?"

"Yes, him- was right after all."

"_Oui._" France stared into his reflection in his cup.

"_Shit-_" England pressed his hand down his dirt-stained face, only succeeding in smearing the grime with his sweat. "If _only_ we had have listened, then Hitler would have been just some loony, locked up somewhere with a view of some nice trees where he could claim to have some special connection with God."* He spat out the end of his regret, disgusted with himself.

France said nothing. In the other room, they could hear America muttering to himself as he busied himself with Germany's wounds. _"…I know Russia's crazy, but __**dude**__, what was he __**thinking? **__..."_

"…Russia…" France said after a pause.

"Hm? What about him?"

"Well, he contacted me, _non?_ He said that Prussia took his brother's place as his captive."

"Brave man," England said. France only nodded. A chair scraped across the floor in the other room, and the two Nations turned to see their ally come in stretching, working the kinks out of his frame.

"He's sleeping pretty soundly," America said, voice tired but still the most chipper of them all. "I got as far as I could with what we got. So who's going to take him?"

"On that matter, we have to find out how we'll deal with Japan and the Vargas brothers," England said.

"_A hon hon~_ if you don't mind me taking Romano, _non_?"

"We need to build their trust with us before we can do things _right_ this time," England scolded. "I don't want to deal with the brat." He turned his gaze to America. "Well, Spunky, do you think you have the wherewithal to handle Romano?"

"What? Him? No problem! I am the hero, after all!"

"And Venezaino?"

_"A hon hon-"_

_ "NO,"_ England cut off.

"Dude, England, you could due for some decent cooking, man. And I think Canada might like Japan's company. They can be wallflowers together. You know what? I bet Austria wouldn't mind hanging with China for a while." America laughed.

France turned into a sad-puppy-face. "_Excusez-moi, _but look at where that leaves _me~_" England was not moved, and America just gave his "tough luck" laugh.

"Well, you are neighbors, after all. Besides, when Germany's able, he really should be the one responsible for his own mess. Is it settled then?"

"Yep," America chimed, "all settled."

"Too cruel," France whined to himself.

* * *

><p>Venezaino lay curled up by Romano's feet, his hogtied hands pillowing his head. He whimpered as his stomach churned again. Romano glanced down at his younger brother and sighed. He leaned against the cell wall with his knees drawn up close and his own bound hands draped over his knees. Slowly, Romano reached out to pat his Fratello on the back in comfort. He was doing this a lot recently, trying to soothe the easily frightened Venezaino before his outbursts earned him a tirade from the guard, which would only upset him further. And the fact that the already frail Nation was beginning to starve hadn't gone unnoticed by Romano.<p>

It wasn't that they weren't getting fed, or that Italy was rejecting the meals out of the poor quality (he had for the first day, but couldn't stave off the hunger for very long). No, it was because he had no contact with his precious _Germany_ that it was making him so stressed and sick that he _couldn't_ keep the food down. Romano crinkled his nose at the acrid stench that still lingered in the damp air. _Dammit, if it were those Bastards that ordered any news be cut off from them, then he'd…_

But would have they have gone so far as deny the mess from being cleaned up? Or it probably the guards they stationed who were the assholes. But the end result was that his little Fratello became so miserable throwing up all the time that _he_ began to turn the meals down again.

At least Romano had no reason to be jealous of his younger brother right now. And he cursed himself for thinking that way. "_Chigii-"_

The guard spat at them. "Shut up. Guard change," he announced. And, like an instinct, Italy stirred from his place on the floor, wobbling as he got up.

"Ger- Germany…" his sing-song voice now croaked, "has there been…"

"_HAH-" _the guard sneered. "He's _DEAD_ and good riddance. Saw them bring his sorry-ass corpse in on a stretcher myself."

"No… Germany- he- he couldn't be… _YOU'RE WRONG! THAT HAS TO BE A LIE!" _Italy's quivering frame snapped to the front of the cell, he reached trough and grabbed the man by the shirt. Even in his pathetic state, even if he is weak for a Nation, Italy was still a Nation and he drew a little bit of strength from each of his people, and he brought the guard slamming into the bars. "Tell me… tell me you lie- that it's a joke…" his eyes were heavy and overflowing in tears, and he choked back sobs with each breath.

"Don't know why they didn't impale his head on a stake," the man replied, and Italy let go in shock. There was a blur, and the distinct sound of bone striking bone and teeth crushing teeth, and the guard almost flew backwards as Romano came out of a vicious double-fisted upper-cut.

The elder Vargas was seething as his younger brother began to wail. "Bastard, if you're going to say things to hurt _mia Famiglia solo_,** then don't be surprised if you go home to find the favor returned, _**capire?"*****_

"What the bloody Hell is going on in here?" England's voice carried as his shoes _clacked_ on the floor. He stopped halfway to the cell and screwed up his face. "Good God- what _has _been happening? I haven't smelled so much sick since the nineteen-eighteen epidemic."

"Hey Tea Bastard- don't blame us! It's your damn guards who've been the lazy asses," Romano spat, his arms looped around the shoulders of the weeping Italy. He pulled his brother in close, as if to protect and console his Fratello.

England stared at the bitter scowl on the young Italian's face and his little brother sobbing uncontrollably into the other's battered uniform. "Then what is…" England's question faded on his lips when he saw Romano's glare shift to the guard and an incensed snarl escape from the Nation's throat. The guard, who had begun to right himself and nurse his face, cowered under Romano's presence. It had to be the first time since… _ever_, Romano realized, that he was given that sort of respect or fear. Even though there were cell bars separating the two, and Romano was bound with his brother held close, the weak Nation emanated a ferocity that harkened back to the she-wolf that nursed the founder of his grandfather. _Forgotten, yes, but not lost…_ Romano kept the smile of pride to himself.

"We've decided who will be keeping an eye on you two. Come on, it's time to go." England unlocked the door and stepped into release the brothers' bonds. Romano took his brother's hand and guided him out to England, which earned no protest from Italy. England and Romano both took Italy by the hand and led him out.

* * *

><p>"Germany… Germany," Italy chocked out, "I-I-I want to see him…" He was shaking, from weakness, from exhaustion, but mostly from despair, and as he held his bony hands up to his face, they quivered under dull eyes.<p>

"Germany?" America repeated, looking down over his glasses at the smaller Nation. "Sure, man, but he's pretty beat up." He nodded towards the room where the defeated man rested. Italy drew his hands away, revealing more of the sallow, dirty, tear-stained face that peered warily up at America. Then, quietly and alone, he made his way into the other room. He didn't realize how small and frightened, yet somehow brave he looked to the others at that moment.

Slowly, he came up to the unconscious man's bedside. "Germany, Germany, I'm so, so sorry I failed you like this. I'm so…" he choked up again, and collapsed onto the other's chest. He lost his friend: his friend because he knew what Germany's boss would have done if he had ever found out. His Germany would have been taken from him forever, but now- Italy only cried weakly since all his strength left him- _but now it didn't matter!_ He laid there for how long, he didn't know, or care, Italy just wanted to soak up the last warmth in his love's body, and inhale what remained of his musky scent.

Wait- _**warmth?**_

Italy's eyes snapped open, and he stared up at Germany, hoping to see some sign of… and he could hear it, right? It wasn't just his imagination, right? And you looked for the pulse up along the jaw, was that it? Italy was afraid that he wouldn't find any, but-

Perhaps God had forgiven them after all. Italy took Germany's hand and caressed it with his cheek, uttering his praises and deep thanks to the Mother Mary. After a while, he stood up, and leaned over, pressing his lips against Germany's, and said, "Bye, for now, when this is all over, I'll come back, I always do."

* * *

><p>* A quote-ish thing from Marcus Brigstocke, an up-and-coming British comedian and actor whose opened my heart to corduroy.<p>

** That translates into "my only family," and "If you mess with the family,"...

*** And this means "understand." I wonder if that's where the term 'Kapeesh' came from.

[And as for the she-wolf story, look it up- they were a symbol for the Roman Empire, so this isn't just some "wolves are so cool I'm going to make them symbolize this character," sort of thing. BTW, it's always wolves, isn't it? Don't get me wrong, I like 'em too, I'm just sayin'...]


	3. Chapter 3 Refugees

**Author's note: Today, my computer is being just a little bit slow, so I have to be nice to it. Things are going along here, so I can't complain, but I am anxious to move into my new apartment, and adopt a cat, or maybe a dog- which would get me out walking more. This is also my final year of college! (It took me long enough- **_**grrr…**_**) But more importantly- to you, dear readers, is that I have this next chapter posted, but I can claim no ownership of APH, but enjoy anyway.**

**Chapter 4 Refugees**

France was tired, and just wanted to get home for a good, deep rest. It took some cajoling, but he managed to convince the usually irritable and just as worn out England to give him and his charge a lift home. Like hell he was going to drive Germany across the lines and deal with all the goddamned bureaucracy and checkpoints. There were also a multitude of other practical reasons that it was a good idea.

Getting Germany onto the plane was turmoil unto itself. He was out of sorts from his concussion, and snarlier from being roused. Add to that his agony of having to put weight on all the broken bones Russia dealt him _and_ the blow to his pride he took from needing the unwanted assistance to get him on board and you got one angry Aryan. Once Germany was seated, however, his demeanor collapsed, and he returned to being weary, pallid and even a little green. England had the foresight to provide a pail for the other Nation, and Italy fussed over Germany for the entirety of the trip. Upon landing, France called ahead to make sure a wheelchair was provided for Germany- there would be no place for the words Germany provided when he boarded the plane at his house.

"I'm calling the doctor in to set your bones at my house," France announced once he got Germany into the passenger's seat and himself settled behind the wheel, turning the ignition. "Since you're… not very popular… here at the moment, it would be best for your safety." He braced for the comment he knew was coming.

"Then you'll have me in the privacy of your own home,_ ja_?" Germany slouched himself across the passenger seat, resting his head between the back of the seat and the doorframe, staring out at the battered countryside. "So you don't deny it," he sighed when France failed to respond.

"I'll expect you to help out around the house while you're here," France said, breaking the silence. Germany grunted in acknowledgement. "Nothing too much, while you're still in your casts. Nothing more than you are able."

"You'll be taking full advantage of me as your indentured servant, then."

"It's only fair that you do your part to set things right. Stop acting like a brat." The elder Nation scolded, not taking his eyes off the road. The rest of the drive continued on in relative silence, breaking only when Germany's fractures were jostled and he'd gasp in pain.

At the house, Germany accepted the wheelchair without any open complaint. Since he could barely move his hands for the pain, he laid them lazily in his lap as France wheeled him along. "There are a few spare bedrooms on the-"

"Sofa, bed: I don't care so long as it doesn't involve any flights of stairs," Germany sighed. France's physical house had the good fortune to be spared from the attacks. "How'd you manage to escape the looting?"

"Because all the works I keep are by artists that time forgot. They were all friends of mine, and those are things you cherish more than the rest, _non?_"

"Ah, I see." Germany braced as he was pushed over the threshold, and then France took him to the nearest parlor. He sprawled out over the empire sofa's horsehair seat, grunting as his stature overreached the frame. Germany grabbed the small throw pillow that rested in the corner and stuffed it underneath his head. After a second of settling, he offered up a hesitant _"Danke,"_ and proceeded to rest some more.

France blinked in surprise at his new charge, but smiled and replied with "_Je vous en prie._"

It wasn't easy, but eventually France did find a doctor who could come out. Should he mention that the patient was German to take off the shock? _Flip a coin: if heads…_ tails. Oh well, France imagined that the doctor should have a good reason to bandage up an enemy. A bottle or two of… he believed that he did have some of the 1882 Merlot left, and there was plenty in the root cellar to feed the man's family for a week, along with the regular pay. Yes; that should do it, given the times.

He set about to making some dinner in the meantime, but nothing rich. Germany was probably still feeling sick from when the plane hit turbulence. And how little Italy mothered his Germany! Even though he was prisoner, he practically _demanded_ that water and a cloth be brought so that he could sponge down Germany's face. Germany himself was willing to lean into the smaller Nation for support, and Italy accepted his weakness openly, muttering lullabies in his native, rolling tongue.

_Ah amore!-_ it is the greatest of all medicine. He sighed at the memory of the young lovers- and wiped a _stinging_ tear from his eye. _'Note to self: don't drift off while in the middle of slicing up onions.'_ He finished his task and slid the pieces into the stock, and was about to start on the next ingredient when the bell rang.

The doctor was a man of middle years, balding mouse-blonde hair, and a whistle in his speech. He shuffled into the parlor, and roused Germany with a poke to the side and an off-color joke about those stick-in-the-mud Germans.

"Excuse me if I'm not in the mood to laugh," Germany grunted as he rolled himself over. "A little bit of peace and quiet would do nicely, however. I'll trust you not to poison me." He settled back down once again, closed his eyes and tried to relax.

"Pois_-shh_-on! _ Oh-ho-ho!_ I'm a doc_-shh-_tor, boy! An hones_-shh-_t man!"

"Hmph."

France left them to their work, he had the feeling the doctor could be trusted, and made sure that the man had seen the generous tip France had scrounged up for him for a job well done. It was going to take a while, and France had a meal to attend to.

It was about a half-hour of stewing to go before the soup would be ready, and the doctor appeared in the kitchen, singing his praises for the aromas coming from the stove. "You wouldn't mind fix-_shh-_ing us a bourbon for the boy? He's very tolerant for a Nazi. Very tolerant. A better patient than most."

"I'll make some for all of us. We all need it."

"Mmm-hm. Truer words have never been spoken, young man."

England found himself fretting over Italy more than he ever thought possible. He could try to imagine how Germany took the lad's antics in stride, sometimes admiring the man for the amount of composure he had, but that was when Italy was in good health. Now, his new charge was at England's kitchen table with knees drawn up, chewing his thumbnail and shivering from the damp cold.

"Italy…" England started nervously, "you're not scared, are you? We didn't…" he searched for the right words as he poured some hot water into his teapot, "we didn't take you guys so that you'd become our slaves- that's been out of the question for all of us for years now."

The smaller man paused in his nail-biting, and he looked as if there was something he was daring to consider. "I want to be with Germany and Japan and Fratello, and I want for all of us to be friends and be happy," Italy spoke in an uncharacteristically quite voice, "And I want to help my people live with lots of food and make life fun again. And I want to be able to eat again."

At this last statement, England became profoundly aware of the other's knobby knees stretching out the fabric of his uniform, that the nail the Italy gnawed on was dirty and oversized for its skeletal hand, and that Italy's eyes were sunken in and grey-lidded.

England sighed and said, "Perhaps you'd just like some toast and jam for now, no cooking whatsoever. Would that help?"

Italy glanced up at the other Nation and gave a small nod. "_Si._"

"You can help out later on with the food since it's so important to you."

"Really?"

"Sure! We'll all get this sorted out, together." England poured the tea into the cups he sat out and handed one over to the weaker Nation sitting across from him. Then he stared out the window onto the reaching lawn of his estate. "Come to think of it, my people in the cities don't have much to eat, either, thank to the Blitz."

Italy sipped the tea tentatively, probably because it was the first hot drink- or meal- he had since having completely surrendered and was taken prisoner. His lips were cracked, and Italy both hunched over the drink for warmth, and held it unsteadily in both hands, trying not to burn his fingers. England went about the kitchen, retrieving the jam from the icebox, and slicing some bread (as plain as bread can get), and setting it on the stovetop toaster, which he asked Italy to take care of. He wasn't going to waste any food in this economy, so he put the fate of the meal into the hands of the one who was going to eat it. England pulled something together for himself, much at random, which caused Italy to stop midway in his crunching.

"Is that why your food tastes so bad, England?" he asked, again curled up in his chair. "You're not watching too much what you put together."

"I'm just using up some old food," England said between mouthfuls, "And there's nothing wrong with my cooking, it's not my fault the rest of the world is so picky."

Italy let out a quiet _"ve~",_ finished his bread and tea and said, "You know what, England? Maybe you're not so scary after all. Can Germany and Romano come to visit sometime? I want to see everybody soon."

England blushed at Italy's simpleton words. He was scary, was he? "The bath is two door down the hall on the left. We're still on water rations here, so you can only fill the tub up to the mark I've painted on it, but you do need a good wash."

The other Nation's pallid face brightened up at the thought of a bath. "Really, England? You really are nice!" Italy stepped down off the chair and headed out the door. Although Italy's voice was still horse, England could hear the happiness eek back as his new charge called as he trotted down the hall. "We're all going to be friends one day. I just know it!"

"Take this." Russia dumped the bloody-headed albino he had been carrying fireman-style into Lithuania's arms, who staggered backwards with the undignified heap called Prussia. The giant man turned away and said, "Bandage him up. He has three days for recovery and then he will earn his keep like the rest of you."

"Russia…" Lithuania stammered as he tried to right the larger Nation, "does- does this mean… that the Axis Powers are…?"

"Defeated? Da. Prussia is the one who I am in charge of. He chose his brother over himself. I will see to it that he will not regret his decision." Russia then turned and headed down the hall, leaving the small Baltic to struggle with the unconscious man.

Lithuania dragged Prussia by his upper arms, heels sliding along the floor. He reached the nearest unoccupied bedroom, and hauled him up onto the bed. There he got a good look at the man.

Pale by nature, Prussia's skin had a blue tinge to it, and his breaths were shallow. His pulse was weak, undoubtedly from blood loss. Lifting up one violently bruised and swollen eyelid, then the other, he saw that those red pupils did not match in size. His skull was fractured as Lithuania discovered when he pressed his thumbs across Prussia's scalp. And the man was so cold and clammy…

With difficulty, Lithuania managed to pull back the covers and tuck the larger nation in. Informing Russia that a real doctor was needed was going to be the difficult part, and he hoped that the man would be reasonable. It would be some time before Prussia would wake up.

"Are you hungry? I know I am." America navigated through the crowds of cheering civilians as their loved ones came in off the docks, and Romano clung to the hem of the man's sleeve. Romano didn't snap back as he usually would, but rather said nothing and huddled in a little closer to America's side.

The truth was, Romano was afraid of opening his mouth and letting his heavy accent betray him in a land his people just warred against. That was a surefire way of getting beaten up, maybe even mobbed to death. As much as he hated being with the overpowering Nation, Romano _couldn't afford to lose site of him._ Getting lost was unthinkable- especially in a strange land like this. How badly he wanted to be invisible and run and hide- but where could he go?

"Here looks good," America announced, turning into a diner. "How 'bout the bar," he headed for it without a thought, but Romano tugged on his sleeve and shook his head "no", motioning to a booth tucked away in a corner. America, seeming to realize Romano's distress for the first time, turned and patted him on the shoulder.

"Alright, if it makes you feel safer, but just remember, the hero is here. Now, I think a real good hamburger would be great right about now," America settled down in one seat and Romano slunk down in the other. "You?" Another shake of the head. "Hmm. Soup of the day is vegetable beef. That fine?" Romano nodded meekly, and America signaled for a waitress.

"Why couldn't you just let me go back to Spain, damn it?" Romano said barely above a whisper. America had no answer.

Canada's house had a simple, rustic feeling that made, Japan decided, welcomed. A fire was already crackling in the hearth, and above it (one of very few things he found disconcerting) was the stuffed and mounted head of a huge moose staring glassy-eyed out into the room.

"Make yourself at home, and I'll make us some coffee," Canada said as he dropped the bags by the front door.

"Yes. Thank you, Canada-san." Japan deliberately chose an old easy chair with deep wings so that he wasn't in eyesight of the moose. It's crushed forest green velveteen upholstery was beginning to get worn through in around the edges and cording. He was, however, rewarded with a splendid wilderness outside the window on the other wall. "Your _r-l_and is very beautifu_l-r_ here. It must be very peacefu_r-l_."

"Yes, it is. I like it a lot." The larger Nation's otherwise soft voice carried through the rooms. Japan truly had to agree. It would be a good place to recover. Maybe he could convince Canada not to hang moose heads in the house, too.

"China, this tea you make is very good. I wouldn't mind having more," Austria said, delicately perching the cup in his fingers. He peered over his glasses at his new warden. It was a different culture, yes, but Austria could still see himself settling in quite nicely. There could even be some musical nuances here that could prove useful too.

"Thank you, aru. One day I can teach you how to make it yourself, aru," China replied with a blush.

"That won't be necessary to stress yourself on my part. Besides, you are the master of the craft, and it is not my place to usurp you."

"_Aiyah!_" China cried. "You _really are_ a freeloader, aru!" Austria ignored the other Nation's outburst.


	4. Chapter 4 Disposition

**Author's note: Arrgh! Decisions, decisions, decisions! It's what goes into a good story. Sometimes you just have to rewrite you stuff to make it better. It means abandoning things you wanted to include and being open to the challenge of… challenges. Yeah- that's it. Well, no world's a perfect world, and there'd be no story in it if there were. So the lesson to take home is…**

**F#$! PERFECTION- IT'S SO BORING!**

**And with that in mind enjoy (kinda-sorta, you know what I mean) this next chapter and remember: I do not own APH.**

**Chapter 4 Disposition**

In the days that followed, Germany took his waking moments to try and get the affairs of his land sorted out, even to go so far as to shuffle through the paperwork while he ate, which earned him numerous scoldings from France. Yet he could deal with the pangs that shot up his arms every time he twitched a finger.

"Honestly, Germany! Work is important, so why don't take time to savor all the care I put into meals? My food will nourish body and soul if only you appreciate it."

"I do realize how much cooking means to you, France, really I do, but there's so much to deal with just on the level of getting supplies sorted out that I haven't been able to start on all the suits for the war crimes-" Germany stopped mid-sentence and buried his face in his one good palm. "-That have already been coming in." He let out a deep, burdened sigh. "Why did I let things go so far?" The fountain pen clattered from his fingers. "They- they missed the_ whole point._ Why couldn't they see what was going to happen? Why didn't _I_ see what was going to happen?" He collapsed back from the side table that had been pulled up as a makeshift desk and dining table and turned to face the back of the couch. "How could I have been so- so _**stupid?**_" Germany cursed himself bitterly.

France took this all in in silence. As Germany stared blankly into the upholstery, he heard France walk over, sit down on the floor beside him as patted Germany's sore side. "_Oh, ma petite Allemagne*,_ you are so young, and you are so devoted to duty that you don't know how, or even _when_ to rebel. We all made terrible mistakes that led to all this. But what is done is done and can't be undone**." He reached over and pecked Germany on the cheek. Then he drew Germany's face to him and pressed his lips against the long-suffering man's forehead. "The present and the future," France said as got up, "That is what we must focus on. Please finish eating."

Germany stared at the elder Nation as he left the room. _'I suppose there is truth to what he said,'_ Germany thought.

* * *

><p>Stitched up, in casts and bandages, Prussia gasped sharply and grunted, cracking his eyes open taking in a darkened room. He was thirsty as hell, and it felt like cotton batting stuffed his head. Where the hell was he? There was a click as the door was opened, and the light that spilled in from it stung his eyes. He couldn't suppress the whine. Prussia suddenly heard a small rustle by his ear and soft <em>"peep<em>."_ 'Gilbird…'_

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you woke up. Did I disturb you?"

"-'N ar- -ou?" [Who are you?]

"It's me, Lithuania. Have you been awake for long?"

"T'rsty." [Thirsty]

"Sorry-?" The smaller Nation came up to his side, checking Prussia's temperature on his cheek, and placed a small plate of crushed nuts on the bedside table with a bowl of water next to it.

Prussia swallowed the dry saliva. "Th'rs'y." He tried again, and was rewarded with a nod, and Lithuania leaving before coming back a few minutes later with a glass of water. With the other Nation's help of raising him up and bringing the cup to his lips, Prussia drank the precious liquid in small gulps as Gilbird pecked at the dish of nuts. When finished, he lowered his head, tucking it into Lithuania's shoulder. "'ou fed Gil'b'r th's 'ole t'me…?" [You fed Gilbird this whole time?] He asked between breaths.

"Yeah," Lithuania said. "He's very smart. He must have followed you and Russia here, and I saw him on the windowsill when the doctor came, and he only made a fuss when he left. Your friend flew right to your side when I opened the window and he hasn't left you since."

"Goo' ol' Gil'b'r," [Good old Gilbird] Prussia sighed, falling back into sleep.

* * *

><p>"Romano. Romano. Wake up, dude." America shook his charge gently, not wanting to scare the weak Nation too much. Outside, a storm raged. Hail clattered against the windows, shaking the panes greater as the pellets grew larger. With each clash of lighting, America could see the violent, cancerous clouds that forebode the most fearsome concentration of winds the earth could conjure. They couldn't stay here much longer. Seizing Romano by the waist, he hoisted him up to his shoulder and tore out of the room and pounded down the stairs.<p>

"Gwuh… What's-a going on?" Romano slurred, disoriented, only to jump and panic when a thunderclap sounded overhead. His kick knocked America off balance, and the two slid for a few flights.

America shook the shock off and searched for the other Nation, who cowered clinging to the rail, whimpering as he hyperventilated, blood flowing from his mouth. Romano's eyes were wide open, but stared off into his traumatic memories. "ROMANO! COME ON! WE HAVE TO GO!" America grabbed at the wrist this time, yanking the shell-shocked man down the stairs once again, and down into the basement. There he dragged his charge with himself into a root cellar, where he sat Romano on a bushel basket of apples and turned a flashlight on him.

The sudden flash of light caused Romano to jump. "I'MB THORRY! I'MB THORRY!" [I'm sorry] he cried, shaking violently, trying to push America away.

"Dude- Romano- chill. Calm down. Let me see where you're hurt," America cooed, patting Romano's quaking shoulder. Romano stared nervously at the larger man, still breathing fast and shallow. "The weather's just a little dangerous out there at the moment, and it looked like a tornado was going to form, so it's best to stay here for the night. We'll be fine- I'm right here, remember?" America continued to speak calmly. He saw that Romano bit through his tongue. "This is going to take a while, so try and relax, OK?"

Tears flowing openly as America pinched the wound, and Romano nodded. "'Ow 'ig oo thnathoths gi'? Hkan thhey khil?" [How big do tornadoes get? Can they kill?]

"They can get pretty huge and deadly," America answered truthfully. Romano whimpered. He began to look pale and unfocused: ready to faint. "Here, lean on me. You don't look so good. I'll keep an eye on things." America moved over to where his ward sat, drawing him in close, and Romano clung to America's shoulders. The roar of the wind could be heard even in the basement, and then the terrible groan of the house's structural support giving way. "Get down! Cover your head!" America cried, pushing Romano to the floor as he dove for it himself. He covered the smaller Nation's frame with his own, who once again curled up paralyzed in shock.

"We'rh go'ng t' b'die… we'rh go'ng t' b'die…" [We're going to die] Romano whimpered. They heard the boards and tile of the house crack under the pressure of the storm. America tried to soothe the frightened Nation without success until the horrors of the storm had passed. And he stemmed Romano's bleeding tongue all the while.

The morning came with the ironic cheerfulness that often accompanies the passing of super cell. America draped his bomber jacket over Romano, whom he let sleep himself out. The older Nation lain semi-curled up on the ground, pillowing his head on his forearm, and snored softly. Romano's (probably very sore) tongue had stopped bleeding freely, and it was sagging to the corner of his mouth. He stirred a little before settling again.

As for himself, America wandered about, munching on a few spare carrots he found in the cellar, and surveyed the damage. Shit. This was going to take some cleaning up. How much of this could he save? It would give carpenters a job, that's for sure (as if they didn't have work pouring in already). But that's the way things work, right? Bad stuff happens and the best thing to do is to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep going.

* * *

><p>*French for "Oh, my little Germany".<p>

**This is a reference to Ruth, in Anne McCaffery's _All the Wyers of Pern_.


	5. Chapter 5 Employments

**Author's note: Tomorrow is moving day! It's my first apartment, and I'm a bit excited and nervous. This is feels a lot different than moving into the dorms, and it's hard to know how long it'll take to settle in, but I think I can handle it. So anyway, back to the story, of which the characters I do not own.**

**Chapter 5: Employments**

"_Mon cher,_ you're doing yourself a disservice, staying up all hours of the night."

"I have to get all the court cases sorted out," Germany growled, trying to blink the tiredness out of his eyes. "Since I am pretty much the only thing binding my people right now, I am naturally responsible-"

"You'll have a _heart attack_ if you don't get some rest, _then _what will your people have? What will _Italy_ say? He'd say that he was so sorry that he wasn't here to help and that you worked too hard and never had any fun. He'd say that that is no way to die and he just wanted you to be happy."

"France, I have _work to do!_"

"_Oh-ho?_" France walked right up to the side table, and stamped his palms on either end of the top. Germany glared at France and France glared right back. Then in one swift, powerful twist, France swept the table and all it's paperwork out from under Germany.

"Why you-!" Germany hollered, launching himself after the desk, only to tumble down in excruciating pain as his broken leg bones bore the brunt of his weight.

France set the table down and knelt next to the younger Nation, and drew Germany into him as the man clenched his jaw, drawing sharp breaths.

'_He hasn't been doing his strengthening exercises; he's been so focused on the paperwork. That is most unlike him,'_ France realized when saw how badly Germany was trembling. "Germany, I'm sending all of these cases to those who are _responsible for committing the crimes._ They may be your children, but they are the ones who chose to do what they did. There are things that only we- as Nations- can take care of, and that is what you should be focused on. Now, because this is my house you're living under, I am_ ordering_ you to get some sleep." France's frustration came out stronger than what he intended, and he realized that Germany flinched at points throughout the older Nation's lecture. Now that he fell silent, France simply held Germany as the stoic man began to relax. When his breathing stopped hitching, France pulled the pillow down from the couch and tucked it under Germany. Draping the blanket over his ward, France left to take care of his end of the troubles.

* * *

><p>"Italy!" England called out the window. "Your boss wants to talk to you and your brother about something." Italy looked up from the vegetable garden England had allowed him to start, and dusted off the dirt on his jeans.<p>

"Okay~!" the Nation called back. It was a rare sunny day out at England's home, so Italy wanted to make the most of it, but if he could talk to Romano and help his country out- well, Italy _knew _that was more important.

"At least rinse your hands off when you come in!" England shouted. He obeyed, but with dirt under the nails, Italy happily picked up the receiver.

"Ve~ I'm here, everyone!" he greeted in his native tongue. "Is everything alright?"

"Venezaino, do you realize what sort mess the roads are in? There's no way to get supplies to the people fast enough!" His boss bellowed through the earpiece, causing Italy to hold it away from his ear.

"_Si._ I know. I get numb, sometimes. Is Romano there? Is he alright?"

"He's on the other line, acting like his usual self," the gruff voice came.

"Ve. What if you give seeds to the citizens to make their own gardens with? That's what England and me are doing! That way they can eat!" Italy sang.

"Yes, but it's the _medical supplies_ and _clean water_ that are the problem! No transportation! Yes, Romano?" Italy tried to hear what his brother was saying on his Boss's other line. "_Air lift?_ The Allies wouldn't allow it!" A clear "_DAMMIT!"_ could be heard followed by a series of Romano's low growls.

"Fratello, being angry won't help," Italy murmured, before he heard his boss sigh.

"_He's_ not being cooperative- hanging up on me like that. I'm going to let you handle him, and try to think of something that will solve the transportation problem, Vargas." Then there came a _click._

"Bye… then," Italy said. He replaced the receiver and sulked into the living room, collapsing into the couch. Why did everyone have to fight so much? All it really did was hurt people. He grabbed a throw pillow and buried his face in it.

"Italy?" England came in and sat next to him. "What happened? You're usually not this upset."

"I'm scared… England, what if Romano doesn't want to help out to fix our country? He was so angry with our boss, and our people can't get anywhere…"

"I'm afraid I don't know where you're going with this, Italy." England sank down into a neighboring chair, and after a bit the other Nation took in a shaky sigh and tried to explain everything in detail. "Well, that does sound like a bit of a chore, doesn't it," England said when Italy finished. "Romano just needs some time to calm down right now. I'm sure that you'll figure something out; just ask if you need help."

Italy sat up and scratched at an itch on his shoulder. "Yeah. You're right. Fratello is smart, so we can do it. Also, think of how surprised and happy for us Germany would be if we did!"

* * *

><p>Secretary work. Totally <em>un-<em>awesome. Prussia had to spend his days addressing envelopes, his leg jittering away in unspent energy while his forearms twanged with every little twitch of his fingers and the muscles in his hand cramped up from holding the pen in an awkward position for too long. And Russia was out and about, meeting with people (even if it was about politics) and getting some fresh air. Prussia tried to make the best of it, but truthfully, there are only so many old tunes you can recall at any one time even if you couldn't remember the order of half the lyrics you could remember.

At least his fingers were getting used to the Cyrillic alphabet, which meant that he wasted less envelopes with errors and went through the addresses faster. And the more he finished the more Russia allowed him to eat. _'Did I ever fall far; I can't wait 'til I get these casts off, then I might be able to get out of this domestic junk.' _He purposely avoided thinking what Russia might interpret that as. Until then, Prussia would just have to be awesome at addressing envelopes.

His eyes stung and he went to adjust the lamplight. They were getting strained. Damn- this always happened, didn't it? Setting the pen down, Prussia pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids, messaging them and shielding them from the offending light. Quite honestly, Prussia hated doing anything that required a lot of light or detailed work- his red and pink eyes couldn't block out light like they should, and he couldn't focus them very well, either.

So Prussia leaned to within inches of his nose brushing the envelopes and squinted as he scraped the sharp, brass pen nib across the paper. It bled fine lines of black ink in its wake. Nothing intimidating about that- not as long as there's a sudden frightening noise to make him jump. A muscle in his back spasmed. Damn it, this work sucked.


	6. Chapter 6 Shock

**Author's Note: Things are coming along for me in my new apartment, and I now have a second beta fish, whom I named Ludwig (yes, after Germany), but he's a lot smaller and mellower than Sanji (from One Piece). Now shouldn't I be focusing on getting ready for school? It's Saturday… **_**nah…**_** I do not own Hetalia.**

**Chapter 6: Shock **

"You seem to be doing better these days," France commented from across the kitchen, fiddling over some small (yet somehow essential) ingredient for the sauce he was preparing. He had set Germany to the task of peeling and slicing carrots into strips no thicker than .5 cm and no thinner than .25 cm. Germany himself gave the other man a look that betrayed his doubts of France's sanity at these instructions ("They must cook evenly," the older Nation explained).

Germany had been out of his casts for about a week now, but he still leaned against the sink basin for support. "_Ja. _My people are beginning to rebuild with what there is of useable bricks. It makes it easier, knowing that they are working." _Tunk, slice. _Work is something that you can be proud of- something that helps things along. _Tunk, slice._ Idle hands are the Devil's tools, as the saying goes. _Tunk, slice._ Things return to normal faster when there's a routine. _Tunk, slip._

Germany hitched his breath. He stared blankly at the cutting board in front of him. The cool wet of freshly peeled carrots was replaced with a hot wet of… slowly, Germany lifted his left hand from his work and turned it palm up to see blood seeping from the dull pain in his wrist.

"_Ach- schei__ß__e._" It was a low utterance, but it seemed to have reached France's ears.

"Germany? Did you say some… _mon Deiu…"_ France stood in shock for a moment before he snapped his grip around the gash, hauling Germany over to the sink. "Wash it out. Wash it out right away." France was not going to waste any time. He turned the spigot, and thrust Germany's hand under the flowing water. "Keep it there," he ordered.

"…Sli…slipped…" Germany muttered, following the movement of France, who grabbed a towel from a drawer, suddenly appearing before Germany again. France yanked his hand out from the faucet and tightly wrapped the wrist. Germany licked his lips. "I- think I should- lay down…?" The stinging water over the gash brought some senses back to him.

"Yes. Do. Careful." France helped him down to the floor, supporting Germany when he turned lightheaded halfway. His overheated forearm was propped up against the cabinets, and the tile floor felt cool against his back. The towel was beginning to feel heavy and the world spun. Germany closed his eyes against the dizziness and tried to steady his breathing. His stomach quivered. "Can you open your eyes, Germany?"

Despite the weight of his eyelids, Germany flicked his eyes, vaguely focusing on the other Nation. He grunted in response.

"I need to know that you stay awake, fool. I never thought you of all people would be so much trouble for yourself…" Germany grunted again, his focus fading in and out as the pressure circled around in his head. He was aware that France was prattling on like this to keep him alert. Then it came to him that there was an itchy pricking on his wrist, and Germany tried to see what was happening. France held Germany's wrist in a firm grip with one hand, the other whipping away at suturing the wound up.

"Where…?" Germany mumbled, staring at the deft movements.

"Do you take me for a fool, _Allemagne_?" France didn't skip a beat, his face set in a frown of concentration. "This is a kitchen; even with the skill of a master chef, things like this are bound to happen. It is only common sense that one should be prepared."

"I see." Germany remained quiet and in time France made a final knot, sniped the thread and announced completion.

* * *

><p>Romano took a deep breath, interlocked his fingers, twisted his hands outward and over his head, and arched his back. He let the breath out, letting the stretch do its work.<p>

Work. _Ha._ That was something he hadn't done in earnest in centuries. But there was a task best not left to his brother.

Romano had managed to find a largely unused and ignored room he could squirrel himself away in. America's house was a mansion, so he could work in relative peace in the part of the house that had been spared the tornado as the rest was being rebuilt.

Rebuilding was, to Romano's soured opinion, a nasty but necessary task. _'It'd be so much easier if people just sorted it out for themselves, the morons.'_ But solutions fell, by and large, to the government, which included him, which is why he got dumped with this shit in the first place. Romano licked his dry lips, the healing gash on his tongue numbly cradling his upper lip.

So this is what he had so far: 1) The Italian populace needed a cheap, reliable, and quickly implemented way to get around. 2) Horses take a shitload of food and care and they don't fuck fast enough. 3) No one approved of the idea of airborne Italians (him least of all when he put it that way). 4) But that didn't mean that Piaggio was out of the question, and a single phone call proved that.

Enrico Piaggio was a lucky break- he was enthused enough about the idea that he spent nearly an hour brainstorming while Romano failed to explain that this was a pricey international call.

And things were going along as smoothly as could be expected: Piaggio was one of the country's top motor companies- not even that potato bastard found much at fault with their work- and it'd show that idiot boss of his and Venezaino's whose got their head screwed on straight.

Romano stared down at the notes he had in his sharp, messy script. '_"It should be able to carry pasta,"' _he read._ 'Hmm. One of my brother's suggestions. I think that translates into "storage compartments." A little obvious, but since it's Veneziano, I can give him credit.'_ Then, with his brother's thought processes on his mind, Romano scrawled down another idea that hit him: _' "Pretty Girls" (not that Italian girls aren't) should look "cute" driving it, too.'_

Maybe _now _the rest of the Nations would give him some credit- _he_ _could do things right after all!_ And for once Romano would not be in the shadow of his little brother. No way was he going to mess this up- no way in Hell.

* * *

><p>"Ve~ this is England's house! I'm-a so happy you called! Who are you?" Italy sang into the mouthpiece.<p>

"It's… me," France's voice came through hesitantly.

"Big Brother France! You'll never guess what Fratello and me are doing-"

"I'm sure I can't… listen- I need to speak to England, please."

"Ve~ he's out at the market right now~ is Germany there? Can I talk to him?"

A strangled _"Ighh-" _was heard. France sighed. To Italy, it didn't sound good.

"Is… something… wrong?" Italy quivered. "Is Germany a- all right?"

There was a heavy pause. "That's… what I wanted to talk to England about, _oui._" Italy swallowed hard. He waited for more, and eventually France supplied, "He injured himself; I stitched the wound up right away, but his hand is infected. I've called the doctor out, but this is something I think… we should be… aware of."

"…He's not in pain, is he? Should I ask England if I could come over? Do you think that will help?"

"I don't know, Italy. I don't know, not right now." There was a pause. "Oh- that's the doctor at the door right now. Talk this over with England and I'll call back later. And- Italy?"

"…_Si?…"_

"Stay strong, for Germany, alright?"

"Yes. I will. _Caio._" France gave his good-bye and hung up. Italy stared dumbly at the phone before replacing the receiver himself.


	7. Chapter 7 Stresses

**Author's Note: Well now the Internet's back up and running, and I finally had the time to post today. But on the matters of more exciting news, I got a dog! This is the first one I've owned, so it'll be a new experience. I've dubbed her Aubrey, because she seems like one, and unless I'm missing out on something, I don't know why people ask why I've named her that. As far as I can tell, it's not that weird of a name. But if people are going to ask, then I might as well name the next dog I get something that's worth raising the question: "Why'd you name your dog ?" …And with that pleasant thought in mind, here's the chapter. I do not own Hetalia.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 7: Stresses**

"Are we having fun yet?" Russia stared down at Prussia over his shoulder. Prussia stared back, wearing an expression of disbelief. In the dimness of the cow barn, the albino's red pupils flashed from what light they could collect.

"You're the only one who would say that," came Prussia's deadpan response. "And I'm no expert in cow health. _ESPECIALLY_ when it comes to matters of _this._" The pale Nation turned to the calloused, overweight, middle-aged farmer standing beside the cow's rear end. "And _WHY_ would _YOU_ call on _HIM_, of all people- when your animal is having birthing problems?" The old farmer spat- with years of experience- a slew of spent chewing tobacco on to Prussia's face. Russia took it all in in bemused silence, hiding is smile in the layers of the scarf.

"Smart-mouthed curs like you should have been lashed more, boy," the farmer growled out in his native tongue.

"He said that neighbors help neighbors around here," Russia told his charge, who clearly saw through the lie, glaring daggers of spite. Russia arched his eyebrows at Prussia. "Now turn that calf around." He'd cherish the face Prussia made for years to come.

"West's life couldn't be half as bad as this," Russia heard the smaller Nation mutter while carrying out Russia's command.

* * *

><p>"Is-<em>h <em>anyone in there?" the doctor chimed as he peeled back Germany's eyelid. What he was looking for this time, France didn't know. France hovered over the far side of the bed while holding Italy back. He was sure that if he didn't, the smaller Nation would surely get in the way. Germany gurgled in his delirium.

"Germany," Italy muttered every so often and he'd shuffle the rosary he clutched in his hand. Each time Germany's breath would catch, Italy would struggle against France's embrace.

England waited attentively in a nearby chair. "Let the doctor work, Italy. It's the fastest way he will finish."

"Well, I do believe that the fever will ris-_h_e a bit before it breaks-_h_," the doctor inspected the inflamed wrist, and ran his fingers over Germany's swollen blue veins. He muttered something to himself. France gave Italy's forearm a reassuring squeeze and Italy collapsed into himself a little. The doctor retrieved a syringe and a small bottle from his bag, filled the needle and injected the vaccine into Germany's limp arm. He poked and prodded the hand and decided that the hand should be splinted in case the tendons became seized and paralyzed.

Germany stirred a little, his hair falling over his forehead and drenched in sweat. He muttered away in a whine, and France thought he picked up something about 'hiding' in German. _'What could that mean…'_

"It s-_h-_eems to me that this fellow is-_h_ bless_-h_ed with an odd ass-_h_ortment of friends_-h_," the doctor said, standing up. "A man who followed the orders-_h_ of a leader that des_-h_erves no forgiveness_-h_, and yet…" the doctor tapped his chin in thought, "the man s-_h_eems-_h_ to be the mos-_h_t guilt ridden of anyone I've ever met. I almos-_h_t feel… that there is-_h_ more to him- and the company I am in," he nodded to each of them in turn, "than meets_-h_ the eye."

While Italy peeked at the doctor with a shyness almost never seen in him and England blinked but otherwise betrayed no emotion, France let out a soft bark of laughter. "_Oui, _it is true. It is no small feat to be what we are and we never seem to completely learn how to handle it well."

Italy suddenly broke free of France, and trotted out of the room. He returned moments later with a cool dampened cloth, which he carefully draped over Germany's forehead. "I wish our bosses would all be kinder to everyone," he whispered, drawing the stray hair out of Germany's face. "He would get so sick, because he hated what they made him do and it hurt his people." Italy's face scrunched up and he began to cry again. "And the nightmares he had… THEY DIDN'T CARE ABOUT HIM! THEY DIDN'T CARE ABOUT GERMANY AT ALL! He's just so…" his words trailed off.

'_He doesn't know when to say "no,"'_ France finished for him in silence.

"Well, he s-_h_hould get some rest, anyway," the doctor said, breaking the moment. He set up an intravenous stand next to the bed and set it into Germany's arm. "Did you get the rest of the drips into refrigeration? There is-_h_ a two weeks-_h _s-_h-_lupply, and make s-_h_-ure it does_-h-_n't go dry until the s-_h_-welling vanis_hh_es_-h_."

"Alright doctor, thank you." France said, escorting the doctor to the door.

"Yes," croaked a small voice from beside the bed. "Thank you. I'm so grateful you care, and you know he's not a bad person." Italy held Germany's good hand, patting it as he nodded to the doctor.

* * *

><p>"HEY-Y-Y ROMANO-O-O! GUESS WHAT DAY IT IS!"<p>

_'Oh, for Christ's sake,'_ Romano thought, dragging the covers up over himself further, rolling over to face the wall and burying his head under the pillow. _'What's to get so worked up over this time?'_

America pounded on his bedroom door. "Dude! Romano! You awake?" Sleeping through _that_ would be like saying you're chilly on the rim of an erupting volcano- and Romano _knew what those were like._ America opened the door more loudly than should have been possible for a pine door of an unremarkable size. "Guess what day it is," America repeated himself, shaking the otherwise comfortably reluctant lump called Romano.

"Nghh, Saturday? You know, that day where it's my God-given right to sleep in?" he growled, peering irritably at the larger Nation.

"It's my birthday!"

"That's great, now if you give me three more hours of sleep, there _might actually_ be a chance that I _could_ be happy for you."

"Dude- you sure you don't want to miss out? There's lots of cool stuff going on today." America was poking him in a very sore healing wound on the back, a nasty third degree burn dealt to him by the Allies bombing campaign.

"_Chigii- 'Dude,'_ my brother's been calling me bawling all over that potato bastard's useless hand, I have to answer to my boss about solving my country's road problems, no thanks to you- and I've got to keep in contact with a shitload of people to do it, _and _in case you haven't noticed, there is a HUGE TIME DIFFERENCE between there and here, so I haven't been getting a lot of sleep, so in short, _YES, I _would like_ very much _to _MISS OUT._"

America stood looking dumbstruck and apologetic. "Oh- when you put it that way…." He meekly left the room, and Romano sighed, turned over and shut his eyes tight.

When he finally did stir, and his stomach forced him into the outside world, Romano found a breakfast waiting in the refrigerator for him: pancakes covered in syrup, blueberries, whipped cream, and raspberries, and there was some coffee left in the percolator. It was stupefying how much America really went out over a stupid day of the year that was chosen at random by some disgruntled old men hundreds of years ago. He chewed the cold meal and slugged down the coffee. _'If it can even be called that- what this place really needs is some decent coffee sold somewhere proper.'_ He spat out a bit of eggshell. _'I guess, since he was so nice as to make me breakfast, I guess it's the least I can do for his birthday… 'n shit.'_


	8. Chapter 8 Honor

**Author's Note: Has it been a fun time since we last met? All in all, it has been for me. Now all I need is a job so that I actually have money to buy food, OR I'll have to really hone my mooching skills in the cafeteria with the freshmen- its not like they use all those meals anyway. I'm also learning about cooking- _PASTA!_ But on to the main event; I do not own APH.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 8: Honor**_  
><em>

_A trail ran alongside a river in the Black Forest. On it, a family of four trundled along in search for ripened berries to gather. The boy leaned out and peered into the river._

_ "Do not go any closer to the river," the mother scolded, " you'll fall in and get swept away. Do I need to reread you the story of Johnny Head-in-Air?"_

_ "The river isn't fast, _Mutti_. I can swim."_

_ "Don't be foolish, _sonne_, and use your eyes," the father said, pointing upstream to where a large willow leaned over the water far beyond the flooded bank. "See? The river's strong enough to wash a tree of its soil. Do you remember that tree standing straighter the last time we came here?"_

_ The boy stared at the tree and nodded._

_ Then the daughter spoke. "So? Look at the river weeds: they're not being washed away, even if a tree can be."_

Germany's vision swam away from the scene, and in the maelstrom of fever, twisted and slung his dreams into a larger scale of unspoken memories that he hid in plain view.

_Authority, his people knew, was a matter of perception. At least they knew it on a level that didn't officially exist. And while most were unaware of this on a conscious level, some were. And this knowledge, like any great truth, carries a heavy burden with it._

_There were many types of his people who bore it. There were those who were too afraid to choose differently than the official authority. There were those who never bothered to think about the matter. And there were those who chose otherwise- be it God or conscience, a sense of guilt or justice, they were the ones who stood their own against that unyielding force. The threat of death could go to Hell, for all they cared._

_And because they were his people, Germany was one of them. _

_Save the ones you can. That's all he could do. If they weren't on record, they didn't exist, and if they didn't exist, then he wasn't breaking the rules. He also had to substitute for a lot of firewood those years. After all, what was that saying? 'It's not a crime if you don't get caught'? Okay- that was a lie, but his boss did say that a lie told often enough will become the truth, and he knew that the former saying was thrown around quite a bit, so…._

_It was the riskiest thing he could have done, hiding Jews in his very residence. A place that the 'official' authority were well aware of. Germany wished that he could only imagine what would have happened to him if he had been caught, but the price was no different than what he was already paying for. _So, bumsen Sie es*.

* * *

><p>It was England's turn to keep an eye on Germany. Italy was still beside him, conked out, curled up and with an old coverlet draped over him. The level of devotion the two shared with each other couldn't go unnoticed, and England felt a pang in his heart for never having had that connection with anyone.<p>

He dampened the washcloth again, and Germany's eyes twitched beneath their lids. The fever had held steady for the last twelve hours or so, and with that being a hopeful sign, he and France had finally convinced Italy to get some rest for himself.

The telephone and telegraph were also in constant use, and newspapers were piling up in the bedroom. It was hard going, and the Nations' citizens were going to be bitter for years to come, but that had to be put all aside. That was one of the roughest parts about being a Nation- you had to think decades ahead, or even further, and try to get the short-lived humans to understand things in a larger perspective. And it didn't help that you had both the government and the populace to wrestle with in your brain. It was a bloody thankless job and the only ones who knew what it was like were other Nations. So, as short tempered, grudge bearing, and self-serving as they were, the Nations still looked out for each other when they saw the need was dire.

England blinked, and realized how hot and stale the air was. He got up, and with some rattling, managed to unlatch the window. The outside air was warm, but it was fresh and the sounds of birds, crickets and the chorus of frogs in the pond danced in.

"Huh? What's this, _Angleterre_, any news?" England looked down at the lawn, and saw that part of it was a vegetable garden. Fresh food, is that what they insist on? France was tending to the plot, or harvesting something, but it was clear that he heard the window open and was curious about it.

"What's this, Frog, taking a break while everyone else worries themselves half to death?" England leaned on his elbows, squinting at the larger Nation in the bright sunlight.

"And who is it, might I ask, that provides you the nourishment you need?" France retorted with a sly grin. The man couldn't get sex off his mind. "So, is there any change?"

"No, but at least that means he's stable." England tilted his head towards the bed when he heard Germany stir in another dream. "But the condition better improve soon or… I'm worried that we'll have to amputate."

France stared down at the root crop he dug up. "_Oui."_

* * *

><p>"Why the hell would someone just 'go for a drive' without planning on <em>going<em> somewhere?" Romano glared at America from his seat, where he was looking at some schematics or something.

"Because it's fun," America answered. He didn't see what was so bad about the idea. "It's not like getting out a little will kill you, dude." In all honesty, he never thought that keeping a charge could be so _boring._ All Romano did was hole hisself up in this dark little room. "It's a perfect day for it, c'mon." America grabbed Romano up by the arm and hauled him away, to which Romano senselessly and futilely resisted.

On the road, Romano remained huffy in the passenger's seat. "You know what?" the smaller Nation complained over the wind of the open windows, "You wouldn't be doing this at my house. There are hardly any roads or fuel or cars. _Chigii-_ I can't believe how stupid you are."

"Hey- no problem." America turned and gave Romano a cheerful smile. "You can get ideas about how to make your roads better by seeing mine."

"_Keep _your_ eyes on the road,__damn it!_"

America blinked and laughed. "Oh, that's right. Sorry, dude. Man, I'm hungry; I know just the place. You want anything?"

"Whatever, sure. _Chigii._"

"Cool." America took a road that led into a small town, where there was a great burger stand and an ice cream parlor that served the best homemade flavors in the state. The burger stand was across the town park, where there was a millpond that lay only feet from the road. He brought the car to a stop and killed the engine. "Come on. Let's go." He got out of the car and Romano lagged behind. America whistled a little propaganda ditty that was circled around during the war:

_'Whistle while you work;_

_ Hitler is a jerk,_

_ Mussolini cut his-**_

"Hey, Romano, what's the hold up?" America spun around the moment he realized that the other Nation wasn't behind him. Instead, Romano was kneeling on the ground, and was inspecting something he was holding in his palm. America trotted back to see. "Dude, what'cha got there?"

Romano glanced up at America, and shyly said, "It's… nothing." He dropped it in his breast pocket, and stood up. "You wanted to eat, stupid," and he started off.

America ordered a hamburger and a Coke for himself and the waitress turned to Romano and asked, "What'll it be, Hon?"

Romano shrugged and looked away. "The same, I guess."

That was when America remembered why Romano showed so little interest in getting out much. The woman's eyes flared, snatched up a nearby flyswatter and cracked Romano across the cheek. The strike knocked Romano off balance, and he stumbled backwards, catching his heel in a crack in the sidewalk. "Get outta here you fascist Diego! I'll burn in Hell before I'll serve any of your sorts here! You can fuck off too!" she spat at America, hitting him just under the eye.

America blinked, and wiped the spit off his face. "Hey, that was totally uncool- we're paying costumers. And it's part of the agreement that he's here." He glanced down at Romano, who was crawling up off the pavement, and glared at them both.

"Shut up! This is why I hate it here! I didn't ask for any of this and I never wanted your damn food anyway!" Romano shouted at the top of his lungs, then turned and stormed back to the car.

"Well, so much for that," America muttered, and followed his charge. Making Romano feel welcomed was going to be harder than he thought.

Back home, lunch amounted to a few PBJs and a glass of milk. Romano laid his head on the table and sighed.

"Dude, Romano, I'm sorry that happened. I didn't think anyone could be that angry." America had no idea how to console him.

"_Chigii._" Romano dug his fingers into his pocket and fished out what he found in the park and put it on the table. "_Arcobaleno, _at least you can't judge._"_ America got a good look at what Romano was talking to.

"Is that Italian for 'turtle?" America asked. Romano tore off a bit of bread and offered it to the just hatched critter.

"Rainbow." Romano corrected. "His shell has reds and oranges and yellows, so he looks like a rainbow."

America nodded. "They're called painted turtles. They don't get any bigger than a pie plate. You can keep him it you want."

Even though Romano didn't raise his head from the table, he nodded. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>*Apparently that's German for "So, fuck it."<p>

**_"-weenie/ Now it doesn't work."_ Yes, this really was a ditty that went around the US during WWII. My dad sang it, and he was eight when the war ended. Seriously, parents these days are so uptight.


	9. Chapter 9 Adaptations

**Author's Note: Here comes a transition in the story. It's a strange thing to see, and I don't know how long I can carry this out, but what I've got written so far [ahead] is some very interesting developments between the characters. I know that it's not necessarily a good thing to try to include all your ideas into a single story (I know this since I've been developing my own universe, and I think it may have too much awesome for me to handle- for now. I must train more!). TCotA deals with the complex dance that occurs when one's personal needs may not necessarily match up with what the larger world wants from them. Very Anne McCaffery, if I do say so myself, or just very human these days. I do not own APH**

** The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 9 Adaptations**

If there was one thing Prussia noticed about Russia, it was that the giant's smile was looking faker and faker these days. The silence the man projected no longer gave him the same impression a thoroughly bemused wildcat would, but more along the lines of a very big, heavily-muscled, tensed, alert black dog that had brown eyebrows. Ego meant nothing to Prussia when Russia was around- the most awesome thing to do was navigate around the growling thunderhead called the USSR. And Prussia was learning the trade- it was a matter of not being killed in a very embarrassing way.

Gilbird had even started leaving his usual posts on Prussia's shoulder or head, or fluttering just above him for the safety of Prussia's breast pocket or he'd tuck himself underneath the jacket, clinging to Prussia's shirt and reassured by the Nation's heartbeat. And Prussia couldn't blame his little pet; he didn't want to see Gilbird get caught by Russia either.

He didn't know when he began to notice the subtle changes in Russia's demeanor, but it took Prussia a while to figure out _why_ the man was on edge. Prussia knew himself to be self-absorbed, but as he listened in silence, as the newcomer Satellite Nation to the Soviet's posse, he learned that Russia had no intention of staying part of the Allies' circle once the war was over, and Prussia became stupefied at his own obliviousness. And the one poking the Bear the most was America.

The conversations between the subordinate Nations were treated like they were committing heresy- they would huddle together in an out-of-the-way corner and exchange observations and theories in hushed voices. Latvia would cower and stutter during those meetings, mostly trying to convince the others that it was too dangerous to do talk about these things.

But there was one truth everyone knew and never said: trapped as they were behind the Iron Curtain, their own personal concern for their lands and peoples paled in comparison to what they knew was coming for the rest of the world.

* * *

><p>Germany woke with a start. He gasped harshly, which caused a nearby voice- probably Italy's, judging by the pitch and cadence- to squeal in alarm. Something told him to wake up. It wasn't his people's distress, although that never left him these days, it was something else. It was something that made you feel like a mouse in the forest at night, and you hear the rustle of tree branches being alighted on and there is only one type of nighttime flying thing that makes a branch quiver that much. The world was trying to say something and he didn't like it.<p>

"G-Germany?" Italy's voice trilled beside him. His hand went up to Germany's forehead. "You still have a fever, Germany. I don't want you to get up too much- you really made me scared. You need to rest more." Italy pushed Germany back down to the pillow. Italy rested his hand on Germany's shoulder, as if to both hold him down and comfort him. Both bleary eyed, they stared at each other in silence before Germany cleared his throat.

"How long…?" his throat felt like it was trying to move through silt slurry and his tongue was covered in it. He swallowed and coughed, and when he tried to move his left hand, he realized how heavy and swollen it felt.

"Ten days," Italy answered somberly. "We were worried that your hand would get all twisted or that in order to save you-" Italy hitched at this point, "- your arm be- _oh Germany- I was-a so scared for you, I'm-a so happy you're awake!_" The small Nation threw his arms around Germany, and nuzzled into his shoulder.

Then he snuggled under Germany's good arm and held him close. Germany wrapped his arm around Italy's frame, and Italy let out a weary sigh. "Is anything wrong, Italy?" Germany asked.

Italy turned his head up to meet the larger Nation's gaze. "Oh Germany, you should get better before you start worrying again." This was a response that made Germany purse his lips. It caused Italy to give a little whimper, or perhaps a strained "Ve~," but he offered up: "We should all stay out of it, Germany. We have nothing left to go on. The problem is between America and Russia. They don't like each other now, and they want to fight." Italy rested his head on Germany's shoulder and Germany rubbed Italy's back. He sighed again and choked out: "What if they make Fratello and Prussia fight each other? But, I'm sorry, Germany, I haven't heard anything from Prussia, so I'm scared." Germany continued to comfort Italy as he relayed the news, listening patiently. "…I don't think even pasta could help," Italy ended sadly.

"No, I'm afraid you're right about that, not even pasta could help," Germany replied with a sigh. "But you and I are very tired," he bent down to place a kiss on top of his Italy's head, "so let's get some rest."

"_Si._ Let the others take care of it."

* * *

><p>"Arcobaleno needs a place to swim." Romano announced to America one morning. The pet turtle was living in a shoebox and had no way of getting to water by himself except for a tea saucer filled with water. "And he needs to get out of the water when he wants. It needs to be fun for him."<p>

America watched Romano offer his pet some scraps of peeled carrot and lettuce. The older Nation let out a sigh that not only reflected his own boredom and sense of confinement but that of his pet. "Oh, I get what you're saying. It's no fun with nothing to do. I have to work today, but I think there'll be time to go to a pet shop when I get done."

Romano stared at America in disbelief. "Stupid!" He cried, jumping to his feet. "I can't go anywhere without getting attacked! There's no way in Hell I can go into a pet store and come out alive, damn it! What if they have a parrot and they set it on me and have it peck and claw my eyes out? Or snakes- they'd try to squeeze and bite me to death!"

"_Romano- DUDE,_ chill. Not everyone here is going to be like that. You have to make an effort to show people that you're just like everyone else or no one will realize it. Everyone who comes here has to do that." Romano snorted at the lecture given by the Nation that was not even a tenth his age. But America, as usual, continued as if nothing happened. "I know it's hard to do; I've seen it millions of times. In fact, every single one whose ever came to me had to work to be where they are." America paused for a moment and laughed.

Romano snarled. "What the Hell is so funny now?"

"Oh- just a little something that my people tend to forget a lot. Well, actually it's not that little, but it's something that humans have a hard time recognizing."

"Well? What is it?"

"Dude, don't you know? Every time someone comes to live in your land, they take their home identity with them. So I guess all I'm saying is that I'm a little bit of everyone. And so is any one of us."

Romano sat back down at the table and picked up a peach for himself. "So what does that supposed to mean?"

America stared at his former enemy and said, "I don't know, but I know that it's important."


	10. Chapter 10 Fronts

**Author's Note: I would like to get into fencing again. I've already decided on an SCA persona, so I should have reason to pick up the rapier once again in order to be able to move up to cut-and-thrust swordsmanship (it's more of what the Germans did). I'm not bloodthirsty at all… nor do I own APH.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 10: Fronts**

"_Ach,_" Germany collapsed into a kitchen chair, and in spirit of beastly hot summer the continent was having, he sprawled out over the over the table to demonstrate his point. He watched France prepare lunch and wondered why the man would unnecessarily don another layer even if it were an apron.

"That's a first," France said upon greeting his charge.

"Hm?" Germany's bangs fell over his eyes, darkened to a gold-brown with sweat. France himself had his hair tied back, probably to hide the frizzing the humidity caused.

"It's been two years since you came here, and I can't remember you ever complaining over something this… not trivial, but… over something you know you can't control."

Germany pushed himself up and swept the stray locks back. "Perhaps, but with my people working and reconstructing, if they are not careful, they become faint. It is draining." France nodded in agreement; that was the case for all the recovering Nations. "But I have good news, too: despite everything, the Volkswagen is has been approved for continued manufacture. My people can afford cars again. Well, most can." There was nothing he could do about those in East Germany.

"And Mercedes? I would agree to having the first off the line as rent, since I can't seem to negotiate anything else out of you."

Germany put on a deadpan stare. "No means no and you'll ruin my apatite if you keep on with that line of thinking." He resisted the urge to scratch his wrist: it itched and tickled under the sweat. Instead, he rubbed the scar against the table's grain.

"What's got you upset, _Allemagne_?" France sounded about ready to scold, but his focus was on the making of a sauce, the whisk a silver blur. "I know how you are- you go after that scar every time you're anxious."

Germany was about to reply with "I'm always upset," thinking about the stress of his people, but quickly thought better of it. Shifting through his memory, he tried to find the source. "Well, I haven't heard anything from Bruder, and I have no idea if any of my letters have even reached him."

France nodded, and added some deiced parsley to the dish. "We all wished that we could have been given the chance to breath easy for once. Everyone understands your feelings, believe me." He set the bowl aside, and came around to where Germany sat. Instead of retrieving some cooking tool, he wrapped his arms around Germany, and squeezed tight before Germany could resist.

"What the-" Germany twisted his head around to confront France. France nibbled at his jaw line.

"Perhaps I can give you some comfort after lunch, _oui?_" He purred into Germany's ear.

"_Verpissen dich!_"

* * *

><p>The miserable weather reached deep into Europe, culminating into ominous blackened towers of thunderheads as Prussia worked away at slicing down the summer grain. The Baltic Nations were out with him as Russia rode bareback on a bay mare, who drooped her head in hopes of sneaking a few greens. Prussia's clothes stuck tight to him and restrained him from the full swing of the scythe.<p>

"Are you taking a break, Estonia?" Russia called to the tallest Baltic. "I said you would have the field cleared before the first drops of rain, and I always keep my promises. Isn't that right, Prussia?"

"Yeah, sure." Prussia wasn't going to argue with his ward at this point, the human bosses were talking of annexing his land to other Nations, so he had to work to get and stay on their good sides. Sweat stung his eyes, turning the world into blobs of gold, blue and grey. Being dissolved didn't kill a Nation, but it was like having a part of your soul severed- you still existed, but it the world wasn't as complete to you as it was before. He seen ex-Nations, and their smiles always seemed a little dustier, their tears a little more silent, and their rage never as fierce as those who still had hope for the world. Prussia didn't want to pay for wisdom if that was the price.

Behind him, gathering up the reaped stalks, was Latvia. Prussia could hear him swallow nervously every few seconds. _'Seriously,'_ Prussia thought to himself, _'if they really wanted this done by the time the storm hits, it'd make more sense to get more than us four out here.'_ It wasn't the first time that thought occurred to him, but he never thought to ask, until now.

"Hey, Russia, I was thinking- and this is just a suggestion- Russia?" Prussia straightened up and turned to the larger Nation, and noticed that he didn't respond to his name being called. It was too strange. "Russia, Russia- you there?" He stepped up to the man and tapped his hand to get his attention.

For a few seconds, it seemed that Russia had not registered that Prussia was there, but then slowly turned his head to the source of the feeling, stared blankly at Prussia before his frame went unnaturally rigid, his eyes rolled back into his head, and collapsed off the horse. The mare bucked a little and pranced away from the sudden weight change, and Prussia nearly fell over from receiving Russia's dead weight.

"What the fuck?" He gasped as he stumbled back. "Russia, are you-" He was cut off when the other Nation convulsed suddenly. It stopped for a second before it started up again, with more violent spasms. "Shit! Guys, get over here!" Prussia called out to the others. He laid the giant Nation out on the ground, trying to pin Russia's shoulders down.

"Wh-what happened?" Lithuania was the first to come over since Latvia hung back, obviously concerned but afraid to approach.

"I don't know!" Prussia cried and Lithuania held Russia's head still between his knees so he could get a good look into his unseeing eyes. "He just went all weird and stiff and then just fell off! And I have no idea why he's shaking like this!"

Estonia was kneeling on the other side, holding down Russia's contorting torso. "A seizure, you think?"

"No," Lithuania replied. "Russia doesn't have seizures. I don't think there's ever been a Nation that had seizures."

Estonia blinked. "What else could it be?" The question was met with silence.

Prussia growled as the tremors passed and the Nation went limp. "Then _why now?_ What could _possibly _cause a Nation to seizure all of a sudden?" He tried to scoop up Russia, but Estonia stepped in, and between the two of them, they manhandled him on the horse. Prussia got on after to hold the unconscious man steady. Lithuania took the reins as the others walked on either side of the mounted two. They left the fields unfinished and tools forgotten in a silence that swallowed the earth and any sense of certainty with it. In the closing distance, the darkening storms announced their strength.

* * *

><p>"Stay awake, you idiot!" Romano shouted into the face of his warden. America's eyes snapped open only to slide shut moments later. He was in a lull of his fit, curled up on his side, arms limp and glasses flung off to the other side of the room.<p>

Romano was getting sick of this: every once in a while, America "the Hero" would suffer a grand mal seizure. He had seen these sorts of things before (Julius Caesar had them), but never in a Nation. Living as long as he has, he knew what to do- only, when the one afflicted is a Superpower Nation, the proper care procedures were next to impossible to carry out. Just about the only thing he could do when the convulsing started up was wrap his knees around America's ribs, clamp the larger Nation's head close to his chest and brace against the shaking until it stopped. The man's body was so strong that it could cause him whiplash or spinal damage if Romano didn't.

He cursed America's boss for pushing for the development of those bat-shit-insane weapons called A-bombs, he cursed that bat-shit-insane Russia for wanting to have some of his own, he cursed America for acting like seizures weren't a serious medical concern, and he cursed himself for caring about shit that wasn't his problem.

America gurgled, and lolled his head around, seeming to signal the episode's end. "Wh-a' hap'neh'?"

"Seizure, idiot." Romano started to ask questions rapid-fire.

"When's your Independence?" "'uly f'rth s'veh'ten's'veh'teh'sis'." "Who's your boss?" "'arry Tr'meh'n." "What year is it?" "N'n'ten'f'rteh's'veh." "The month?" "'uly." "What's your address?" Romano didn't stop the basic questions until he was convinced that America was safe to rest. He hauled his warden to his feet, and bearing most of America's weight for him, led the Nation to the nearest couch. As he was doing so, Romano carefully prepared a speech for America's boss the next time he met the ass. It was one thing he excelled at- choice words were Romano's specialty.

In the meantime, there was a matter of great importance to Romano that he abandoned minutes earlier for America's sake. A long awaited letter had finally come from an eager associate. Romano sliced open the envelope, and pulled out the paper and with it, a grainy, black and white photograph. He studied the picture, read the letter and looked at the photo again. Finally he nodded to himself. _'It does look like a wasp,'_ he thought in approval.


	11. Chapter 11 Disquieted

**Author's note: Well, I've been having fun in Alternative Photo, and I still need to get on the job hunt, but beyond that, nothing much to say other than the usual spiel about me not owning APH, ect.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 11: Disquieted**

It was an instinctive action. China gave a sudden sharp cry of pain, and Austria, following him home from the market, darted forward, dropping a package of live crabs in the process, and caught China's arms before the Nation hit the ground. China writhed, trying to regain his balance as Austria supported his weight. He bit his lip, wondering what catastrophe happened where to cause such a severe reaction in his warden.

"Ai…yah…" China gasped through his torment, "Why? Why? Why… why… can't… they- _arrgh!_" At this point, Austria thought it wise to slowly set China on the ground. Austria knew that China had trouble (to put it lightly) holding down a steady government since before the first world war, and that now that the fractured parties no longer had to worry about external threats, they were back to squabbling amongst themselves.

And not just between parties but within them as well. The Communist Party in China had been gaining power and changing the social structure of the farmers while they were at it. Perhaps their leader really did care for the people as a whole as the man said, but when that man starts permanently silencing experts in their fields and low-level party members who raise their concerns…

Couldn't his world have waited a century or two before repeating itself?

Austria held China upright in silence. Four thousand years old and the Nation struggled with even developing the atmosphere for civil debate. And he had all those spiritual leaders, too. China sagged against him, gulping air and possibly beginning to calm down. But he couldn't blame the Nation himself: humans had a positively stupefying knack to be able to forget all the bits of history that they recorded but never failed to repeat.

"Aiyah… I think I can get up now. Thank you, aru." China sighed, and took the hand Austria offered. "Let's go home, aru."

* * *

><p>"<em>Schei<em>_ße!_" Germany bellowed. He brought his fists solidly down onto the tabletop, causing a vase of chrysanthemums to rattle and tip over. Then, because that did not diffuse his anger enough, Germany snatched up the offending newspaper, crumpled it into one mass, threw it across the dining room and immediately stormed out, snarling a continuous stream of vulgarities.

Outside. He needed to get outside and get some air to clear his head. Throwing a fit would not be productive. France appeared in the hallway, looking concerned and shocked. It seemed, however, that France knew better than to prod the irate Nation as he passed him by, as the loud _clack_ of his ward's shoes rattled down the hall and back.

Gravel grated under his feet as he moved without any thought to his path. Germany's brow furrowed, as he mulled over what the newspaper articles announced: both America and Russia have announced successful and ongoing experiments in their 'nuclear research' programs. He gave a snort of disgust.

He knew that atomic weapons were going to be developed at some point because the worst part of humanity was never satisfied with the number of ways it had currently dreamed up to slaughter other people. And this one just _so happened_ to be dremed up by his people, and because it just _so happened_ to be his people that started it, it was the entirety of the German people [that is, himself] who get the blame, not the handful of psychopaths who actually were responsible for developing nuclear fission.

The whole monstrosity came from Hitler's insistence that a way to split the uranium atom be devised. It was all for naught, since madman had been straining Germany's resources as it was- so it would have been decades before anything could have come of it! Nor could he blame Einstein for urging America to develop nuclear weapons before that bastard could succeed. But everything else that came after that- it left so much doubt about the idea of what was righteous and what wasn't that- it was inexcusable. Absolutely inexcusable.

"What the Hell was that insane _arschloch _thinking?" Germany thought out aloud to himself. "_Mein Gott_, it felt like a bad idea from the start. I should have _said_ something. After they tried to find a way to get rid of the waste- _I still _loose feeling in this leg easily," he gave his left foot a hard stomp, as if he were trying to wake it up.

Germany suddenly got the feeling that he wasn't alone, and he glanced up to see a wide-eyed woman staring at him in fear. Germany blinked, uncertain how to handle this encounter, because one misinterpreted word or move could land him in hot water.

Then a rustle from the roadside bushes revealed a spaniel of some sort coming out to greet the woman as its master. Germany couldn't help but smile and hold his hand out when the dog turned its eyes to him. "Ah, you have a dog. Is it friendly?" The dog pressed its wet nose into Germany's palm, and satisfied, gave him a small lick, as if it were nursing Germany's scar.

* * *

><p>Russia was aware that he was being moved, or at least what he was in contact with kept shifting. With a great deal of effort, he opened his eyes to see a familiar face staring at him. Their lips were moving, but he only heard a suffocating nothingness and he couldn't place where he was- although he was sure he seen it before. Russia attempted moving, an arm perhaps, to reach out and grab hold of something, but his body was slack and his intentions were hitting a brick wall somewhere along the way to his limbs. He thought he managed a groan, because he felt the vibrations in his throat, but he wasn't sure.<p>

Who were these people? He knew that he knew them, but his mind was so fogged that the only thing he knew about them was that they were probably talking about something important. Why was this going on? He couldn't remember what words to use, or how to make them. It was just… a feeling. Where was the ground? He didn't know which way it was and the movement around him was just that: movement. There was some light where these people were taking him, and it stung his eyes.

It started with a sting, and he tried to groan. He squeezed his eyelids shut, and the squeeze became crushing, and it spread. The pressure made his head too heavy, and he let it sag. His head became heavier. The pain started to twist down his neck and torque every part of him. Russia struggled to breathe so he could cry out his hell.

He was placed on something that cradled him, and he could feel something being draped over him. Its weight secured him. Even so, he wanted to writhe, but his body ignored him. Then came the blessed absence of light. The pain was still there, but the light was gone.

He felt the surface give way, and a new presence came to his side. It was warm; something told him it was a person, and they reached out and began to stroke his hair. They stayed there. They just simply stayed there and did nothing else. He rested as best he could, and tried to sleep everything away.

It was too much to fight anyway.

* * *

><p><em>'Look on the bright side,' <em>Prussia tried to console himself, _'at least they can't say that I'm slacking off.' _He had lost the game of rock-paper-scissors between him and the Baltics' to see who had to stay with Russia. Under no circumstances would he have been there otherwise. But the man was in obvious pain and far too exhausted to resist any help.

Prussia felt the larger Nation try to relax, and he smiled to himself. West was the same way, as a child. When he was sick or injured, the little West would do his best to stay awake, throwing tantrums and even biting the doctors until Prussia was there to watch over him. He understood on a personal level what it was like to be scared of everyone around him.

He closed his eyes against the darkness, and let his other senses take over. Sight was such a bother to him- it was the primary link to the outer world for people, and his didn't work right. But there was enough superstition pinned on him over the centuries as it was to risk wearing a blindfold; you put a blind albino who feels the sentiments and wounds of a kingdom in the middle of Medieval Europe, and- far too often he knew when a village was going to burn an accused witch. He would feel the tremors somewhere in his body and his head would swim hot with rage and fear. The fever would soon engulf him entire and he would become incapacitated as the mob howled and the victim screamed. He would get physically sick if he were near enough. It was then that he'd crawl into a small space and hide, wishing the world away and praying- Dear God, _PRAYING_- that he wasn't found. The hatred frightened him, so he _had _to pretend that he wasn't half blind, and he _had_ to do the things he did keep his place in the world, and he wished it was never like that.

Prussia heard Russia's tense breaths hitch with an occasional whine when the discomfort flourished again. Then, in an instant, blood-rush overtook Prussia's senses and danced red and green delusions in his eyes. His body crumbled and he slid to the floor; it was then that he knew what happened- what _they_ did without telling him. _Bastards_. The air was pressed out of him and he couldn't cry out. The human bosses had officially broken up his land. He should have been there- he had every right to be there. Searing pain tore thorough Prussia like lightning, twisting his body into knots, mouth agape in a futile attempt to scream or even breathe.

'_Alone,'_ he thought just as the darkness swallowed him. _'I'm all alone. And lost…'_


	12. Chapter 12 Meetings

**Author's note: Rainy days and I lost my glasses in the ravine that's full of fallen leaves on the bank of the creek. Right now I'm wearing my reading glasses, so no driving for me, sad face. It also doesn't give me a lot to say in this post because I have to get my 2 o'clock coffee before I head off to class. But the point of all of this is to bring you this next installment of _THE CHRONICLES OF THE AFTERMATH!_ Yeah, but I don't own APH anyway, so... yeah...**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 12: Meetings**

Italy couldn't be happier for all the rain that tattooed against the window, turning the outside world into a wibbily-wobbily blur. The human bosses had approved an idea that was sure to make the world a happier place. They agreed that, once a month, all the Nations should gather together so they can talk with everyone and solve problems. It was just what he wanted! And better yet, the first meeting was at England's house!

He wanted to make everyone feel welcome, because that would make things easier for England, and it was an excuse to make all the cannoli he could. England left him to his task, taking over the housecleaning himself and booking a conference room. Since England was host, he agreed to let some stay at the house. That even included Germany! And that meant that Italy was going to make his best pasta for him.

* * *

><p>"You're taking Hannelore with you?" France asked as Germany scooped up the restless ball of fur. As it turned out, France knew the woman that Germany had met on the lane, and her dog was going to have puppies. When it came time to find homes for them, she knew that Germany would be a loving owner. Germany was, naturally, more than honored to adopt one. When he went to pick one out, it was this little lady that had tottered over and chosen <em>him<em>, settling comfortably into his lap and nuzzling against his hand.

"Do you expect me just to leave a _puppy_ home alone for days? _Nein_, they need constant watch so that they don't get into or gnaw anything." He carried with him a stack of newspaper, just in case. "It is imperative that I make sure that there is a bond established between she and I." The mottled black and blue furred pup wriggled itself upright to give her master an affectionate lick. Germany gave her a scratch behind her ear. It was truly therapeutic to have something to take care of again. He set Hannelore down for one last widdle on the lawn before they hit the road and helped France pack their luggage.

"Germany! Germany!" The all too familiar greeting rang down the hall, and before Germany could turn around to see him, Italy barreled into him, hugging with all his might.

Germany worked his arms free and wrapped Italy in an embrace that spoke volumes of what he often found so hard to articulate. He missed the little klutz. "How have you been doing these days?" He asked as his love relaxed his grip but still held fast.

"Things are getting better and better! Oh, and guess what, Fratello and me solved our roads' problem! It's the happiest I've seen him in a long time!" There was a scrabbling at their toes, and Italy glanced down to exclaimed: "Puppy! Who are you?" He immediately kneeled down to pet the spaniel.

"Her name is Hannelore; it means 'gracious.'" Germany commented. "As a matter of fact, she'll need to take a walk since she's had no where to play since this morning. Would like to come along?"

"_SI!_ I'd love it! You have a puppy; it's so cute! Let's go!" Italy dashed to the front door, swung it open, and found England, France and America exchanging greetings. "Hi, everybody! Ve~ is Romano here?" Germany came to the door with Hannelore sniffing the ground around her, to see Italy skipping around the group.

"Yeah, but the dude's still sleeping from the flight," America said nodding to the truck parked just behind France's car, his hands shoved casually in his pockets. Italy nodded an 'okay', then spun and clung onto Germany's free arm.

"Ve~ then I'm going to walk Germany's puppy with him! _Caio!_" He dragged Germany away, who barely managed to utter any 'hello's' to the others.

The ground was still damp with rain, so the cuffs of their pants were wicking up the dew as the two walked, hand in hand, in silence. Hannelore was going to need a bath at the end of the end of this. But for the moment, the three of them took in the solace of each other's company.

"I'm sorry," Italy was the first to break the silence. "I heard about they did to Prussia. None of us liked it." Italy's voice cracked at the end.

"_Ja, danke._" Germany couldn't say anything more. He remembered turning as still and cold as a stone when he heard the news himself. At the time he couldn't hear the condolences France was offering.

To the Nations, getting your country dissolved was like a mind losing its body, but it still remembers all the sensations of the world and it knows that it will never experience those things again. They were forced to live with their whole purpose of being stripped away. Germany's fists clenched as his mind wandered to the thought that his brother might...

"Germany," Italy pulled him into an embrace, then reached up to draw Germany down to him, and pressed his lips against Germany's for the longest moments he could remember. Italy broke it off and started another, draping his arms around Germany's shoulders as Germany kissed back. "Everything will be all right." Italy said finally. "We're all here to make things better. Prussia is strong like you, Germany, and you always said that his loyalty was his best point. He'll come home. We'll make sure of it."

Germany's half-lidded eyes looked into the promise held in Italy's. Hannelore sat at their feet, whining her concern. "_Ja. _He will. Thank you for reminding me, you are right."

* * *

><p>The walk to the kitchen left Prussia out of breath. He leaned his entire weight into the wall, gulping air for the next three meters to the nearest chair as Gilbird fluttered over him, chirping his encouragements. Prussia managed a weak smile for his pet, his scarlet eyes flashing as they always had. <em>'Down but not out,'<em> he thought to himself, _'take that, bastards.'_ It was then that he heard the sound of heavy rattling from he kitchen. _'Not again,'_ he took one last deep breath and shoved himself in the direction of the sound.

Sure enough, Russia had fallen; eyes wide open, shaking from yet another nuclear test. Prussia sighed. He was still reeling from having his land split up, and didn't yet have the strength to help his psychotic captor. Leaning on the threshold, Prussia gathered up the breath to holler "_Seizure! Kitchen!"_ down the hall. A couple of seconds passed before he could hear the pounding of feet answering the call. That was enough to give Prussia a reason to take a seat and let the others see to Russia. He slumped into the chair at the head of the table and Gilbird settled on his shoulder.

Soon the three Baltics tumbled into the room and tried to hold the quaking Nation still. "Make sure to hold his jaw shut, Latvia," Prussia coached. "Who knows what he'd do if we let him bite his tongue off." Latvia seemed to be shaking as much as Russia. _'Probably wasn't the best way of putting it,'_ he thought upon refection. There was little else they could do but wait it out.

When Russia regained consciousness- albeit severely disoriented and incoherent- he was hauled to his feet, and between Estonia and Lithuania, walked to the nearest parlor. In their absence, Latvia's trembles barely calmed, but he took a seat by Prussia, and twiddled his thumbs.

"Why does Russia's boss keep doing this? Doesn't he know he's hurting Russia?" Latvia stared straight across the table, afraid to make eye contact with Prussia.

Prussia tipped his head to the side, thinking. "I don't think Russia's told him," he said at last, earning him an exasperated "Huh?" from the small Nation.

"Well, if I had Stalin for a boss, there'd be no way in Hell I'd let him on my weaknesses, even if I was his-" Prussia paused, rolling the words around in his mouth to find the correct ones. "A Nation can't trust a leader who mass slaughters his own people to- not take advantage of the Nation's link to their children- if the leader suspects the Nation of disloyalty. Russia may have a screw loose, but if there's one thing he knows, it's not to trust anyone that reminds him of himself."

"So what do we do?"

"Nothing. We just keep him still during the seizures and let Russia decide how he wants to handle his boss. We don't have any clout anyway." On his shoulder, Gilbird rustled his feathers and rubbed his head against Prussia's cheek.

* * *

><p>The low sun of England's summer still lingered in the sky as Romano started a little head run so he could leap onto the bed of the pick-up. THIS was it. THIS was his sole motivation for taking on the responsibility.<p>

It wasn't large, nor did it have much torque compared to other vehicles of its size, but it was easy to handle, simple to use and maintain, and perfectly convenient for the everyday needs of the average person. The test run proved that, like all new things, there were some kinks to work out, but by and large Romano _loved _it.

With America's help, they unloaded the makeshift- but sturdy- ramp: setting one angled end against the end of the truck bed. Then Romano dashed back and righted the small vehicle, mounted, and waited for the other Nations' attention. When there was a lull in the conversation, Romano sparked the ignition, making the less alert give a jump. He took off down the ramp and sped circles around the others, all the while bearing a toothy grin. It was sleek machine, bearing a windbreak on the front, with a single, wide footboard joining the front to the back, and shell enclosing the motor. The wheels were small and didn't call attention to themselves, which lent the rest of the unit an impression of hovering.

"Hey, idiots! Thought we couldn't help ourselves? Well guess what! This is the Vespa! The _wasp!_ So watch out!" Romano laughed, watching as the land-locked (at least that's what it felt like) twisted and turned to keep up. The group stared, broad smiles with 'ohh's and 'ahh's and laughs of joy at seeing the small, surly Nation light up. Above the motor's loud tattoo, there were a few claps, followed by a few more joining in, pouring into a full chorus of encouragement. There were a few fists pumping the air. The wind streamed through his hair. It both dried and made his eyes water at once. The world turned to streaks of color as he flew past. Italy ran around the crowd, waving his arms and trying to keep up, his alto giggle carrying the loudest of everyone. And Romano soaked up every inch of their applause and cheers. Hell, he might even let the Potato Bastard try it out.


	13. Chapter 13 Rhetoric

**Author's Note: This has been a week of usualness, but the art show my Senior Seminar art course is putting on is really coming together! And, oh crap, I still have to do all that reading and set up for digital printing for photo so i can make cyanotypes. I want to do more Holga though! And pinhole... But anyway, here the next chapter, but I don't own APH!**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 13: Rhetoric**

The rock garden at China's house offered Austria some refuge from his warden. No matter how many times he seen it happen, Austria has been- and always will be- creeped out when he saw slow but observable changes in someone's demeanor and attitude. So when the Red Army began to overtake the ruling order, and China became more and more obsessed with justice, Austria took to becoming more and more low-key. He relished the crunch of the gravel path beneath his feet, feeling glad to know that the sounds of things don't change. Unless they need tuning- and that is easily fixed, but a piano will always sound like a piano and never like a trumpet. If it does then you've gone insane.

He couldn't blame China's people for wanting to erase the corruption, nor could he deny that as the Communist Party land grew, China's bouts of pain and injuries lessened, but it was all too soon for the ward Nation. China's fits were still a problem of course- Austria hadn't seen him since the one China had earlier that morning and he stole away to his bedroom.

It was too much of a reminder of what he went through only a couple of decades ago, when that madman rose to power and took over the minds of not only his, but Germany and Prussia's people as well. He had to watch it all over again, the power shift from a broken system to a growing juggernaut while the little voice in the back of his head twittered away: _"Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Evil reigns when good does nothing, and what can you do? You are not the people in this land; it is not your place to contradict them. All you ever were was a slave to the reigning view of the times…"_

He clenched his jaw, fingers dancing out Chopin without his realizing it. Austria felt so useless- he could do nothing to convince China to approach the new power with caution. In the juniper tree branch that twisted over the path, a mother songbird brought food to its young.

* * *

><p>"Dude, whose side are you on? That Commie Bastard's or the Hero's?" America was shouting so loud that Germany had to hold the phone a good half-meter away from his ear.<p>

"I _don't _want to come under Russia's reign, America, but you must understand that my people under his control are in desperate straights, and as long as there are no negotiations, I can do nothing to help them." Germany felt it best not to mention his own far more personal- and familiar- stake in all of this. War was war and not the time to get caught up in your own issues. As a soldier, he had to be impersonal about it. It still stung like a bitch, though. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"Lookit, Germany, I know you're worried about Gil and all-" Germany said nothing, "But we gotta keep the rest of the world free, y'know?" Germany's eyes widened at those careless words of abandonment, and swallowed.

"Yes, it is a shame that the only way you two can solve your disagreement is by destroying each other and taking the entirety of the planet with it," he growled into the phone. "It is clear to me now that the people who are suffering on the other side are a necessary sacrifice." There was silence on the other end.

"Dude, was that sarcasm?"

Germany pursed his lips. "Yes." Slowly, very calmly he replaced the receiver back on the base and turned on his heel and left. He walked absentmindedly and stiffly to a parlor, and collapsed into a sofa, propping his head up with the one arm against the back. Germany felt at wits end with the situation, and if he were only allowed to return home again, it would at least _feel _like he could do something.

He heard, but not registered, the slow, soft clicking of claws on the wood floor, nor did he really realize that Hannelore followed him in, head and tail slung low. When she graced Germany's hand with her wet nose, Germany instinctively rubbed her head. She then sat up and rested her paws in his lap.

Finally Germany blinked, realizing that she was there. He reached up and ruffled the long, black, curly locks on her ears, and she regarded him in the devoted silence that only dogs can give. Hannelore had grown into a fine, sleek lady: her semi-long waves of fur graced the slim but strong frame. She was a French breed of spaniel, and looked every inch the ideal canine in what he could assume would be French tastes.

Not that it mattered to him that she wasn't of German origin. And it was clear from the way she nursed his scarred wrist, and how she would lay down at the foot of his bed at night and greet him with kisses in the morning that his being German meant nothing to her either. If only humans and Nations could understand each other as well as Hannelore did him.

* * *

><p>The bundle of birch sprigs cracked across Prussia's back and he swallowed back his scream. Then Russia readjusted his balance and Prussia gasped. The giant Nation stood with one foot planted on Prussia's left forearm and the other on the opposite calf. There was no way for Prussia to free himself. If he were allowed to wear his military outfit rather than the thin work shirt, the sting of the blows would have been deadened.<p>

As it was, the sprigs opened long lacerations across his skin, tearing the shirt to shreds, which was only making Russia angrier at Prussia for being ungrateful and ruining a perfectly good piece of clothing. The man's voice was raised to a deafening pitch, causing Prussia to screw up his face while managing sharp breaths. Some part of him knew that Gilbird was squawking and trying to fend off the mad Nation.

Prussia was not in the mood to stir up trouble at the time, and as far as he could tell he did nothing to provoke Russia, save startle each other when they nearly ran into each other coming round the corner. Russia was in constant pain ever since the nuclear research program really got going, and there was little other way for him to mask it except to lash out at his subordinates. His range of influence was increasing as well, making his blows cut deeper than when Prussia first came here. Prussia grit his teeth against it; there was nothing else he could do but wait out Russia's abuse.

When the temper finally dissipated, and Prussia risked a small glance out from under his free arm, he was given a sudden boot to the gut. His body collapsed around the implosion, and Russia removed his foot to step over him muttering something about being late. The wounds complained over the tensing of the back muscles as Prussia wrapped himself around his airless torso. Gilbird was hopping around on the ground, peeping his distress over his friend.

He wanted nothing more than to lay there, letting the floor support his body for him, and fall asleep when the pains ebbed. _'Breathe,'_ he counseled himself, _'breathe slow, and let the lungs do their work…'_ Loitering was not an option though, he knew. It was his blood that was spilled, so it was his responsibility to clean it up. The episode took a lot out of him, so the longer he lay on the floor, the heavier his eyelids got, and it would make moving become more difficult if he allowed himself to rest. Back still stinging, Prussia drew in a resolving breath and pushed himself up.

He heard tentative footsteps pat down the hallway, and he saw a figure- Estonia, if he was right, judging by the height of the only moving blob in his field of vision. "What happened?" Prussia guessed right: it was Estonia. "I would have come earlier, but…"

'_But no one around here wants to pacify the dragon for anyone else,'_ Prussia thought with a bit of spite directed at himself for being no different than the others. "Yeah, I know," he said.

"Good God, look at you back," Estonia stared wide-eyed at Prussia's ribbons of skin and flesh. He offered Prussia his hand, which Prussia accepted, and hauled him to his feet. "How the hell are we supposed to bandage that?" He wrapped one arm beneath Prussia's shoulders, and Prussia, with agony, managed to sling his arm on the other Nation's shoulder.

"First thing's to keep the stain from setting into the floor, if I want to come out alive."

"I'll handle it. Leit'll take care of you." He began to lead Prussia away.

"_Schei__ß__e,_" Prussia gave a sharp gasp, clenching his jaw against the pain as Lithuania sanitized the lacerations. He lay on his stomach on his bed, resting (or trying to) his head on his crossed forearms.

"I'm sorry, it's the alchohol, I can't help the sting," Lithuania consoled, dabbing away with the pungent, soaked cloth. "Please try to relax."

Prussia slowly loosened his shoulders and half closed his eyes in his fatigue. "I know," he sighed. "There's just gotta be _something_ we can do to -if not to _ward off_ Russia's behavior like this, then to… be able to establish some sort of boundaries, or something."

Lithuania stopped in his administrating, and said: "That's crazy, Prussia, there's no way that'd work."

"Ever tried?" His question was followed by silence. It seemed to have broken Leit's spell, and he returned to dabbing the wounds. Prussia continued. "I know that diplomacy isn't my strong point, but I do know that the right words in the right voice can up your chances of getting what you want."

"How do you know that?" Lithuania was now trying to very carefully sew together what scraps of skin that fit together.

"I've seen it happen, not too long ago." Lithuania gave an _"hm?"_ and Prussia answered, "It's not the most positive example I can think of, but if Hitler just went around saying, 'You know what? If we kill everybody who doesn't identify themselves as German, then all our problems will be solved,' then he wouldn't have amounted to anything but a whacko with a chip on his shoulder."

"Uh… so what you're saying is…"

"Don't disagree with Russia outright when he snaps, but try to make it sound like… you know- try to act reasonable with him, and when we're all around… try to diffuse the situation."

Prussia heard Lithuania swallow. "What make's you think that would work?"

"Nothing," Prussia snorted. "But it's worth a shot."


	14. Chapter 14 Dispute

**Author's Note: Gah! Stuff is happening so fast! But I just would like to have my pancakes, bacon, eggs and hot chocolate for dinner (I was originally planning on having pasta but the pans for that are dirty)! This time I didn't burn the bacon trying to make it crispy- I'M LEARING EATING STUFF! Noms are most awesome, but on to some more rational- or not- topics. I do not own APH**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 14: Dispute**

The World Meeting that month was held in at America's, and like any other in the established pattern, little to nothing was accomplished. Germany pressed the heels of his palms against his forehead at end of the second day, trying his best to breathe out all his tension. If _only_ people wouldn't talk out of turn, they might actually get to understand the speaker's reasoning. Ha. If only it were that simple. But getting people to work together was harder than getting a wooden gear clock to work in humid weather.

A hand clapped around his wrist; Germany glanced down to see Italy cradling his hand, brows scrunched in a look of concern. "Germany, don't scratch that scar anymore. You do that so much at meetings, and I get afraid that you might open it again."

Germany blinked. "I was scratching it just now?" Italy nodded and interlaced their fingers. "I guess it has become an unconscious reaction. Well then, thank you."

"Hey, Germany, Iggy an me're going to go for a few drinks- wanna come along? France is cool with it." That was America for you- as long as he didn't see you as the spawn of Satan, all issues he has with you officially are just water under the bridge in off time. He and England were bickering about… Germany couldn't say, the subject of the debate, as far as he could tell, changed about five times before he could manage to break it up.

"Well, I don't see why not. It's not like I'm free of warden." Truth be told, Germany didn't really enjoy major American brews: they lacked any bold flavor and regional variety. But the offer was extended and he only felt it polite to accept.

The bar was dressed up in the typical western saloon décor, complete with a self-playing piano, making the bartender look out of sorts with his polo shirt and kakis. The nine of them (Japan and Canada were also invited, and Romano had no choice but to come along, and Spain was thrilled to be with him again) gathered round a table. Germany took a seat at one end of the table while Italy clung to his left arm.

"Game of poker?" America flourished a pack of cards, taking his place between France and Canada.

"As long as it's no-stakes, it should be fine," Germany said. "Because some of us," he turned a glare to his warden; "are a little bit looser in their definitions of 'winnings' than others." France tried to look hurt at Germany's statement, but his eyes couldn't quite cease their opportunistic glint. Only Italy and Japan, who sat at Italy's left, choose to sit out, conversing quietly among themselves.

Their drinks came, and at that point Romano had won the majority of the deals, claiming that he had to keep his skills sharp, and if what Italy had said about Romano, then the elder Vargas wasn't lying- apparently some Romano's well-played games had gotten them out of more than a few corners with the mafia. There were a few onlookers that gathered around them. As Germany looked over his hand, he felt Italy at his side tense up, and his grip around Germany's arm tightened. A hand then grasped his shoulder, and the group exchanged glances.

"Hey, Blondie, you know that thing hanging on you ain't a girl, right?"

Germany refused to acknowledge the man; his stern face scowled a little deeper. "Interesting, my chances are good, but I'm not sure I should…" The Nations turned back to their game. He could feel the silent plea Italy was sending him.

"If worse comes to worse, there's nothing wrong with pushing your luck," America answered. He took a swig of his drink.

The grip on Germany's shoulder strengthened, and he didn't need to turn around to know the man was going red in the face. "I'm _talking here,_" the man growled out.

"OI!" England slammed his flagon down on the table. "We're in the middle of a bloody game, you git!" His cards slipped from his grip. Already the man was buzzed.

The man sneered back. "And I-" Italy gave a choking sound as he was wrenched from his seat, "don't give a rat's ass, fa-"

Germany was on his feet, wearing the expression of a Rottweiler barely containing its rage. "Drop him." Behind him, seven chairs screeched across the floor.

When the man refused to comply, and instead tightened his grip on Italy's throat, America tried to step in. "Not cool, man. The guy wasn't hurting anybody, so it's best to just let him go."

"Potato Bastard! What're you doing, just standing there? Do something!"

"Awaiting permission," Germany hissed.

The man blinked a few times before comprehension dawned. "Only a fuckin' pansy asks!" the man dropped Italy and threw a punch into Germany's jaw. The blow knocked him back a few steps and he could taste blood where his lip was cut open. Germany stood, drawing himself up to his full height, arms crossed and eyes narrowed into his most piercing glare. The bar's patrons long since noticed the tension, but the Nations behind Germany grew quiet.

The sound of bone hitting wood floor broke the spell. Italy, who was trying to crawl unnoticed back to the safety of the other Nations, collapsed groaning, another man lifting his boot from Italy's head. He didn't have a chance to look up before Germany launched for the man's head, and Romano went for the gut.

Feet pounded across the floor and the man that couldn't leave well enough alone found himself facing America's fist. He recovered and attempted to return the favor, but America ducked just in time. In his place, England leapt onto the table, charged, leapt, and drove his heels into the man's face and shoulder. He jumped off and away before the man hit the ground.

When Germany presented the greater threat, Romano broke away from his quarry opting to see to his brother. "Venezaino! Venezaino!" He shook his shoulders, but when no response came Romano rolled Italy onto his back and checked his neck, pulse and breath. Then someone grabbed him by the back of his collar, hauling him to his feet, and Romano almost instinctively elbowed whatever he could connect with, which ended up being the man's solar plexus, and as the man doubled up, Romano threw in a few punches to the temples.

The man would have fallen, were it not for the other one backing into him from France's flurry of fluid fists and kicks. Clearly this man had no proper training- he focused so much on power that he lost speed, and France wove around him, fooling the man at every turn. In all but a few seconds, the two humans crumbled in a heap.

By that time, Germany had already taken to Italy's side, scooping him up, holding him close, he looked for an out-of-the-way place to keep Italy safe. A brief glance down at his love told Germany that Italy would not only be out of sorts for several days, but that he would have difficulty breathing as well. The table they sat at was so massive that Germany could imagine it meeting with a grenade and only receiving surface damage. It also had one end shoved up against the wall. He dove for the space beneath it, and laid Italy down.

The Nation also scrambled out at the wrong time. He swayed; blinking his vision back into focus after a chair was smashed against his back and head. Germany felt his scalp being seized, and it didn't help that his assailant didn't let go after being body-slammed into the table. Whiplash: _schei__ße._ He crumbled in a mess to the ground. Getting to his feet proved impossible; his muscles refused orders to work and his brain was lost in the dark.

"-are you okay?" that was a voice that wasn't unfamiliar… "Germany, can you-" the voice stopped to throw a punch, "can you get up, eh?" The voice sounded too timid to be in a brawl. That was Canada, right?

"Nng… not… yet…"

"Alright, don't worry." Germany grunted at the reassurance, focusing on his own balance. Canada kept guard on them, surprising any assailants with his years of ending up in hockey brawls; he'd throw his entire weight into them, discombobulating them, and taking the opportunity to dislodge their balance with a few hits and a sweep of the foot.

Between him and Germany, another man dropped clean out of the air, with Japan sailing over them. He landed with a short slide on the neighboring table, spun and launched himself over the din to relieve Spain of one the two men he was cornered with. He landed and slid to a stop, jabbing a fist into the floating rib of the one who was winding up for a punch. The other had Spain restrained. The punching man doubled over at the pain, and Japan threw a knockout blow to the head.

Spain took the chance to ram the other one, who let him go. Spain tumbled, but quickly recovered with his feet planted soundly beneath him, he delivered a roundhouse to the face.

The last man dropped at England's feet. Around them, chair and tables were knocked over, glasses broken and patrons rolled around on the floor.

"Holy shit," America breathed at the scene. "What do we do? We can't just-"

"Hero or not, America, they were the one's who started it and we had every right to act in defense," England rolled the man onto his side with his foot.

Spain spat out some blood. "Yes, I say we just leave them with the chance to pretend that they still have their dignity."

"Yeah, but we still-"

"Imagine what they'll do to redeem themselves if word got out that they were beaten up by a bunch of-" England cut off his own words. "The world meetings are best left run by Nations, and if word of this gets out, _none_ of us would like the consequences."

"Nng… I think," Germany slurred as he tried to get up, "it is important that Italy receives immediate attention." With one hand braced on a chair, he managed to get up to a half-crouch before his muscles gave out on him, sending him down with a jolt of pain when his knees hit the floor.

"We… should… just leave," France said making his way over to his charge. He looped an arm around Germany's shoulder and pulled the man to his feet. "We still have the meeting tomorrow. Can you walk?"

"_Ja_, I think so." Germany balanced precariously on his feet watching America and Romano carry Italy between them.


	15. Chapter 15 Worries

**Author's Note: It's a fact: once you make your own soup from scratch, no store-bought variety will ever be as tasty again. It's a lonely road to walk and there is no going back. Are you willing to burn the bridges you've crossed? I have. Goodbye, brand name dinners. I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 15: Worries**

"Braginsky." Russia didn't like the voice his boss addressed him with. But he kept his mask on, the expression of a truly innocent child on the face of a grown man whose eyes nonetheless brewed with intelligence. He trusted this man less than he trusted the Devil.

"Sir?"

"You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago."

"I had to do some _disciplining_, Sir."

The man's eyebrow twitched. Russia tried to make his gaze a little hazier. "Braginsky, I want you to know that for a long time now, I thought that there was something strange about you."

_Shit._ Russia blinked, as if he were confused. " 'Strange,' Sir? I don't understand."

"Braginsky, we met twenty-five, thirty years ago, did we not?"

"I do believe you are correct, Sir."

"And you look, oh, I'd say…" Russia resisted the urge to lick his lips, "twenty… two? At the latest."

Russia gave a fake chuckle. "I'll take that as a complement, Sir."

"Yet you looked the same back then." Stalin retrieved out of his desk drawer a stack of photos and handed them over to Russia. Russia paged through them.

"These are all photos of me, Sir."

"Some dating as far back as the early eighteen hundreds, if that daguerreotype* is anything to judge by. And you haven't aged a day." Russia kept staring at the images in his hands. This was the one man in the world he couldn't say 'get to the point' to. Inwardly, he was cursing himself: he never knew how many prints could be out there, even if he destroyed all he came across that he didn't personally own.

"So I've been doing some background research, and came to the conclusion that your name, Ivan Braginsky, is only an alias." Time for one more try at a save.

"Sir, who do you think I am, then?"

"_Russia,_ was there a reason you were withholding your true identity from me, your leader?" Of course, Russia had no answer, except for maybe…

"I did not think that it was necessary for you to know," he adorned the innocent look again.

" 'It was not necessary'?" The man screwed up his face, partially hiding it behind interlocked hands. "Here before me is a man under my command who _is_ the physical _embodiment_ of the entire nation that _I_ lead, and you thought it was not necessary for me to know about it?"

"Yes… Sir."

"Russia, tell me what you think of the Purge. Are there innocent men being lost in it? We wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"Everyone is guilty of something, Sir."

Stalin's eyebrows twitched again. "GUARDS! GUARDS! A TREASONER IS IN OUR MIDST! RESTRAIN HIM!" Russia barely had time react- he thought he could hold the man off for longer than this. The doors behind him burst open, and before he could retrieve his pipe from the recesses of his coat, a shot rang out and the slug planted itself deep into his shoulder. The pipe clattered to the ground, and a second shot to his hip sent him down as well.

Teeth clenched, Russia struggled to retrieve his weapon; only to have it picked up by his boss. He only just managed to make eye contact before pain shot out from his temple. Blackness roiled, punctuated by more blows that punched him into nothingness.

* * *

><p>Romano sulked in his bedroom, glad to give space to Italy and his boyfriend as the two- Italy especially- recovered from the brawl. Occasionally he'd peek outside the window to see America conversing with the up-and-rising gasbag, Senator McCarthy**. The man was a paranoid delusional in Romano's book: the newspaper had announced that he claimed to have a list of 205 members of the Communist party working in the State Department. Where the man got the number or the names Romano didn't know, but if they <em>really were<em> a problem then America would have shown it somehow.

He had seen idiots like this before- you can't live through two thousand years of occupation with the occasional power struggle/mass hysteria/plague/insert-noteworthy-crisis-here thrown in and not develop an eye for these sorts of things. America had to learn it for himself, because he wasn't the sort of guy who'll listen to experience, and Romano wasn't the sort of guy who got involved with other's problems if he could help it.

He paged through the current issue of _Time Magazine_, looking for anything that was worth the distraction from that ranting moron that was getting America worked up. As long as the hamburger idiot didn't mention Romano living with him, he couldn't care what America thought of the McCarthy's opinion. Romano had learned long ago that it is just easier for the people to come to their senses on their own when mass panic arose than try to pacify his children, which was known to make them suspicious of their government. Maybe a Nation detaching themselves from their people was akin to child neglect, but it's one survival method for the Nation as a person. There were consequences for those who didn't: just look at what happened to Russia because he wanted to keep his people safe from abuse.

Still, watching someone's decent into madness was hard for anyone, no matter what your age. These days it felt like the entire planet was in freefall without any way of knowing where the ground is.

* * *

><p>It was almost perfectly quiet in the bedroom. Germany lay on his side, his left arm serving as a pillow for both him and Italy. Italy slept with raspy breaths, his throat bearing bruised, violent shades of every color. The blankets were drawn up close to him with Germany's right arm draped gently over his waist. Germany himself was dozing in and out, keeping one eye on the door out of force of habit, one eye on his partner. While he attempted to be at the final day of the world meeting, Germany's concussion muddled him, and just the effort to remain conscious drained all his energy, so France took him back to America's house during the lunch break. In his waking moments when he sorted out where he was, Germany ran over what happened in the bar in his head over and over again.<p>

He hesitated for too long when he should have dealt with the threat when it became evident. At the time, however, trying to give the man no reaction to work with seemed the best way to diffuse the situation. Resorting first thing to violence would not have been a wise move on Germany's part- even more so because it was a human who wasn't one of his people. But in hindsight, he had been an idiot to think that. People like that man just want to see others in pain and in fear of them. Germany _should _had have done something the moment he felt Italy's distress. Come to think of it, what the _hell_ should have he expected Italy to do?

Germany sighed, curling his arm up so he could draw away the hair that fell in Italy's face. The little Nation murmured; wincing as he shifted in his sleep due to the blow he took to the back of the head. The shouts of a visiting senator seeped in the room, and Germany drew Italy into him closer. Italy was the one who kept him human; Germany needed him in a way that he could never fully articulate. He knew the sort of voice the senator was talking in, and it made his wrist itch and stomach knot. He worked the joint back and forth, unable to scratch it without losing his hold on Italy. This wasn't his country, this wasn't his people, and he held no power in what happens in this land. Germany could only hope that America could get the "bad feeling about this" that Germany didn't when he needed it.

* * *

><p>*daguerreotype- an early type of photo, no longer made because of the mercury vapors used in the development of the image. They also damagesmudge easily and the image can only really be seen if the light hit it just right.

**McCarthy is a legitimate historical figure who basically turned the Red Scare into a national witch hunt (of Communists and Socialists). He was a Wisconsin senator. His influence gave rise to the term "McCarthyism"


	16. Chapter 16 Burdening

**Author's Note: AAHHH! I haven't updated in so long! Well, not so long as Toxic Toast needs updating but what are you supposed to do when your imagination can't come up with any awesome/clever/amusing/epic scenes to end the episode with? Anyway, today is the ever of the eve of Thanksgiving, But I won't go into any of that soppy festive enforced facade of happiness- it's kind of creepy, like 1950's creepy... But I love my family anyway and enjoy simply getting together with them anyway. So to all you folk out there reading TCotA, a great many thanks (not that I need the ego boost). I do not own APH, just so you know. Oh and a warning: Russia has a Romano mouth moment, but then Romano has his Romano mouth moments and Prussia will be Prussia.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 16: Burdening**

There was an emptiness eating away at Prussia's stomach. Still, he was tired and stiff and sore, and the bed was so supportive and warm. He lay face down on the bed, and breathed in deep breaths, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each wonderful cycle. Let the others come get him when they needed him; this was a rare moment of peace in Prussia's life that would be a sin to pass up.

He lay still, reluctant to disturb the sorry flesh of his back. Gilbird sat on the corner of Prussia's pillow, and he pulled his head out from under his wing, blinked at Prussia, and peeped.

Prussia smiled. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I wouldn't be surprised if Leit put some food out for you, go and check." He was answered with another peep and Gilbird fluttered up to the bed stand, and chirped in approval, and began to gorge himself. Prussia's gut complained again, but the rest of him didn't want to move. Somebody would probably come by with some food at some point anyway. There came a soft rapping on the door. _'Speak of the devil,' _"Yeah? It's all right to come in."

The door creaked open, and Latvia entered, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup. "How are you feeling? We thought you might be hungry." The small Nation greeted, hands trembling as he set the soup on the stand.

"Like I could become an advocate for race horse rights." Prussia answered, pushing himself up and into sitting up with great care as not to aggravate his back. "This borsht? God, you'd think that the man was on a restricted diet of this shit and vodka." He shoveled a large spoonful of the stuff in anyway.

"Actually," Latvia said, turning his gaze to the floor, "Russia hasn't been back since he left today. It's already seven at night."

"Maybe he went drinking or to a strip club or something." He licked up a drip that just escaped his lips. Latvia flinched at the idea and even went red in the face- Prussia didn't see what the Baltic had to be so embarrassed about. "What? The man's got to have some level of normalness in him or they'd lock him up."

* * *

><p>Russia woke up to find his hands bound behind his back and his feet in shackles; laying prone on the floor. His head throbbed like a kettledrum, and his left eye was swollen and tender, threatening to secrete tears and fill with gunk. Russia needed a good gasp of air to clear his senses.<p>

Cracking his one good eye open, surveying his surroundings. There was nothing in the room except for a lone bare light bulb. As much as his body resisted, Russia managed to get himself to sit up on his knees. The inertia in his head wanted him stop turning it about. He swallowed his foamy saliva, and he knew he was in trouble, yet the thing he wanted to do the most is curl up into a ball and block out the light, so he could sleep the hurt away.

The door had no knob or lever on this side to speak of, and there was a sensation of chilly air around him. It was then that Russia realized that he had been stripped of his coat, scarf and military jacket. _'What are those damn bastards planning?'_ Not that he had to guess. _'Experiments. They'll want to know what sort of connection a Nation has to their country. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit.'_ There had to some place where they could watch him. Russia's eye swept the room, and he licked his lips.

'_I wonder if the others will worry about me. In fact, that I'm missing should be more disconcerting to them.'_ Russia hoped… he didn't know what he hoped but he knew that he was hoping. It was that stupid human instinct that was doing it- he knew what sort of stuff he was in for- things that he was guilty of committing himself. Things he did for the sake and safety of his land and people: _he needed the brutality to protect his children from their enemies! From themselves! _But if this is what it took to keep his children safe then- so be it. But Stalin, Russia realized, was only after power for himself- otherwise he would not turn on his people so!

Behind the Iron Curtain, Russia, master of the Nations who could not defend themselves- those for whom he had to do the protecting for them- was separated from the outside world. He had only his own mind to keep him company. Why, Dear God, _why,_ did so many things he had to love be the very things he couldn't trust? Something in him collapsed, and Russia, hopeless and alone, erupted in a wail that could have sucked out the souls of the saints.

"Get up." A boot thumped against his side, and Russia jerked awake. "Get up. You're wanted." Russia sat up, and the guard wrapped a hand under his arm, hauling Russia to his feet. Russia wore his blankest expression, but when his eyes (what he could open of them) met the guard's, he made sure that they bored in deep. The guard, in reaction, tried to stare at some point beyond the room's wall, and Russia took it to heart. He still had his mask.

* * *

><p>"Jesus Christ, man! What's with you?" the idiot senator yelled. Romano jumped up from where he sat on the floor, leaning against the wall by the window. Outside of the window, the senator was trying to haul an unconscious, convulsing America to his feet.<p>

_"Chigii-"_ Romano hissed, and he bolted out of the room. He took the first five stairs with a leap, skimming over them and pummeled down the rest. Flying to the scene, Romano firmly took America out of the senator's hands and eased the younger Nation to the ground. Settling down over America's shoulder, Romano braced his warden's head between his leg and hand, the other hand holding down the sternum. This was a great fucking time for France and England to be too busy quarreling to notice anything else.

McCarthy tried to interfere, but Romano batted him away. "What in God's name is wrong with the guy?" Romano snorted, determined not to say a word.

"Is this normal, this defect?" Romano shrugged, eyes trained on America.

The senator stormed around America. His hand shot out, planting a death grip on Romano's jaw and yanked his head up till he made Romano look at him. The man glared hard at him. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Romano said nothing, doing his best to hide his fear.

"You just came outta nowhere- like a Commie or something?" To this, Romano furrowed his brow, making a face that said 'You're fucking insane, you know that?' And it was true- what the man said didn't even make sense. Where'd that link come from, anyway?

The senator snarled. "What's wrong with you boy, can't you talk or anything?" Well, why not? Romano shook his head. "Weakling!" He shoved back against Romano's jaw, knocking him backwards and sending a shock to his spine. Romano rolled on the driveway in a few minutes of paralysis, aware that off in the distance the senator was storming back to his car, uttering threats to the two Nations. The senator had it out for them and treated them like rabid animals. As the car roared away, Romano tried to force his limbs to move, knowing that he had to try to make America's stop.

* * *

><p>Sleep and wakefulness played a game of tug-of-war with Germany until the rapping at the door gave wakefulness the edge. His consciousness was still a far cry from complete, however. "What…?" He shook his head and instantly regretted it. The door flew open when he groaned at the pain. Germany shut his eyes against the suddenly spinning world.<p>

"What did you do to yourself now, you idiot?" It was Romano. Germany grumbled an answer but kept his eyes shut. He heard Romano move to Italy's side of the bed, and Germany relaxed. Romano sat on the edge of the bed, checking on his brother. "Is he sleeping alright? Did he wake up at all?"

"Around three o'clock." Germany blinked experimentally. "He said he didn't want to move and I told him that that was all right. Not that he had much of a voice. I'm sorry." He averted his gaze from the elder Nation. "I was a fool not to act sooner. It won't happen again."

"_Chigii- _you were an idiot. It's disgusting, the way you held back just because you were afraid you'd look bad," Romano spat, abruptly turning away from the couple. "No one would have blamed you, you know. I bet everyone would have been glad to see you put that Nazi in his place. WILL YOU QUIT GOUGING THAT WRIST!"

Germany snapped his eyes open and looked up. Even though his left arm still pillowed his lover's head, he was surprised to find his free arm stretched over Italy, his fingernails trying to tear up the scar tissue. He stared at the hated mark he wore; and he would bear it forever, this thing. It would never fade and it would only grow deeper with every new sin he'd commit. It would have been better if his arm had been taken from him, then he's be free of this wretched-

His free hand stung and he found it rising into the air. Romano's hand swung above it; he had slapped Germany's hand from the scar. "You've opened it, you moron. I can't believe you could be that thick skulled. Stay still and I'll get the bandages." Romano left, leaving Germany stunned with Italy snuggled up against him. Romano came back a few minutes later, first-aid kit in hand. "Give me your hand." He sat down again on Italy's side of the bed. Romano cleansed the wound in a terse, clench-jawed silence.

Germany's curiosity got the best of him. "Is something wrong? You're not usually this-"

"America's been having seizures." Romano pressed batting onto the wrist. "He says that the nuclear testing isn't hurting him, but he's not pounding around the house like he did when I first came here." Awkwardly, Romano wrapped up the wrist in gauze. "And then there's that idiot senator-" his voice grew shaky, "-he's- he's- _doing something _to America's head. He's changing." In one final hopeless attempt at self-control, Romano clipped the gauze and slapped medical tape on the end. The Nation slumped and turned away, grinding his teeth beneath hated sobs.

Germany stared past his hand, propped up by the elbow, to a side of the elder Vargas that was almost never let shown. "Yes," Germany said with a swallow, "yes, I see what you mean."

"_Italy had to watch you change!_" Romano spun to face the larger Nation, his cheeks flushed and tearstained. "You weren't on the receiving end! What makes you think you understand?"

Germany stared with a dropped jaw. He averted his gaze and found his voice again. "Maybe I don't know. You're right. I don't know. But I don't want America make that same mistake. I'll talk to him." Beside him, Italy stirred, nuzzling into Germany's breast.


	17. Chapter 17 Critical

**Author's Note- YOU CAN BLAME THE LATENESS ON FINALS AND A SHITTY INTERNET! Finals, when you're an art major really beat the living shit out of your creativity. And the internet- its way too expensive for the "I'll work... possibly at a fair speed... if the weather's good... if I feel like it... I guess," act its been giving me since I got it. DX And with a lack of creativity, it's hard to keep comfortably ahead of the postings to make sure I put out quality work. *Sigh* We all suffer for our passions... I don't own APH, etc., etc...**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 17: Critical**

It is a well-established fact that everyone has those moments when terror and fear _should_ be the foremost state of mind to be in in a bad situation, but the pragmatic mode has decided to step in so you remember to tie your shoelaces. The thing with Russia is that that those moments never really shut off and simply see fit to acclimatize to the times. And this was one of those moments. They really didn't have to open him up to see what happens when they mess with his heart- there were times it fell out all on its own.

The rest of him screamed though. Russia twisted and lunged against the restraints when the blowtorch's flame ate into his heart. The stench -oh God the stench- acrid and vile, he could feel the fibers withering away. Eight hundred families in Moscow lost a loved that day, all by spontaneous cardiac arrest. The sterile green of the operating room bore into his unseeing eyes and the voices of the- the- they were _his _people- _why were they doing this? _ '_Because. They were told to. It's for the sake of the people. It always is.' 'Is not.' 'Is too.'_

With every contraction of the heart, blood burst out of the wound like fire. And with every contraction of the heart, his lungs collapsed. The room was darkening…

* * *

><p>"He hasn't been here for the last four days," Lithuania said, and in that instant, the three Balitcs and Prussia dove behind the nearest piece of large furniture they could find. Belarus's knife hummed; lodged in the wall behind them.<p>

"What. Do. You. Mean?" She was controlling herself quite well, actually. Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania all huddled against what minimal protection their furniture provided, but Prussia very carefully arched his back to feel for any reopened wounds. With none of the others providing any information, he decided to bite the bullet.

"Well," Prussia spoke with a great deal of intention and caution, "four days ago, your brother tore my back to shreds and then left for some meeting with his boss. We haven't seen him since then, or head from him, and we don't know where he is. That's all we know." The springs in the couch creaked. Prussia looked up to see that misleadingly cute face glaring down at him. Frozen to his spot, Prussia blinked and nervously licked his lips.

"Why didn't you ask anyone? And put a shirt on, pervert."

Prussia glanced at his exposed, pallid torso. He had forgotten that he decided to go without one today. "The police said that there's nothing about a missing person from the government that seems so damned unusual. And open air supposedly helps wounds heal."

She leaned in closer to his face, eyes narrowed. "Didn't you tell them who he was?"

"Uhh…" there was a point halfway between here and infinity that Prussia stared at.

"You said not to," Latvia said, then instantly clapped his hand over his mouth. Belarus snapped her head over to face the place where Latvia hid, and slowly turned back to the albino.

"Why…?" her glare bore into Prussia, who thought he heard the scraping of metal.

He swallowed and answered quickly and truthfully. "I sort of figured he didn't want his boss to know about him being a Nation. I don't think he trusts him. I wouldn't."

The girl refused to let up her glower. "What makes you say that?"

He shrugged. "Bad vibes? If Russia trusted him, he would have told his boss how the nuclear testing was giving him seizures and-"

The couch lifted off its front legs; Belarus lunged at Prussia, her hands snapping a vice-grip around his neck. " 'Seizures?'" Prussia pulled back, trying to pry the other Nation's hands off. He nodded. The glare continued for a few long seconds, and suddenly the pressure on his throat released. "If what you say is true, then Brother must be in danger. We're going to find him."

The four men stood stupefied. "F- f- find him? How?" Lithuania was the first to speak.

"By going out and _looking for him_." Belarus growled.

"All of us?"

"_**Yes! **_**They could be**_** torturing**_** him!** Isn't that what Prussia said?" Her angry pout turned to him again.

Prussia frowned, averted his eyes to the ground to his right, and rubbed his chin as if in serious thought. Which he was- he was in no position to do otherwise. "I wouldn't put it past them…"

"And you said…" Belarus stated very slowly, "that Brother didn't want his boss to find out about him _being _Russia?"

Prussia furrowed his brow for the look of it. He had already put the pieces together. He sighed and bit his lip. Finally he came round to the front of the couch and collapsed onto it. "That's what I figure, yes. So, if my hunch is right, _they don't care what Nations they can get their hands on, they just want guinea pigs._"

A crushing silence filled the room. The only sound they heard what Belarus grinding her teeth. Not as Nations, but as people- as humans- they could think of nothing worse to face, simply because all that the Nation would be turned into is a thing, a tool to protect the power of their leader. If one couldn't look into the face of their people and feel moved to comfort when twisted in tears, then there was no heart left in them.

"We move." Prussia forced the words out of necessity. "We move now." And thank God he did: it broke the spell. "We've waited too long. Four days is too long." The old blood was in him again, the blood that coursed with the certainty and clarity of an eagle. "They'll be coming. Wanting more test subjects." The others were hurrying around, to their bedrooms, to the kitchen, to storage. "Take only essentials: food, medical, clothes, hunting. Pack to move fast and quietly." He projected his voice so it could carry down the halls. "Twenty minutes. We'll give ourselves that. Twenty minutes."

It had to be past midnight before they set up camp and they neglected to start a fire. Not even Belarus had much to say, even though she had to leave her brother's house deserted and no one knew where to start, but it wasn't over the mountain where the smoke and orange glow was coming from.

* * *

><p>Italy danced around the edges of consciousness, never quite finding the right moment to open his eyes. His body relaxed into the comfort that nestled him and he was content not to move. It was warm, and there was that musk that comforted him so much. Germany. Italy snuggled closer, safe beside those deep, steady breaths and strong heartbeat. He hummed, and blinked. Germany was dozing, hair affray and his arm wrapped around Italy. Italy leaned in for a kiss, tenderly caressing the other's lips.<p>

Germany stirred, opening his eyes when Italy pulled away. "_Hmm, _Italy… you're awake?" He drew him in closer and Italy relaxed into his embrace. "How are you feeling?"

"Ve~ better, but I'm still sleepy. And bruised. What about you, Germany?" His partner wasn't the sort to laze about all day.

"Much the same. I shouldn't have let my guard down like I did." Italy tilted his head, ignoring the ache the weight shift caused. Germany always turned a little softer when Italy did that. "I was focused on getting you out of harm's way, and I left myself open because of it."

Italy looked away, and spoke in a small voice. "Ve. I'm sorry, Germany, I'm not tough like you. It's because of me that you got hurt." He felt a kiss being pressed into his hair as Germany drew in his scent.

"Don't be ashamed. They were the ones who had a problem with us." He rubbed the small of Italy's back, to which Italy responded with a line kisses up Germany's neck. Cradling Italy with his arm, so that Italy wouldn't be so shaken, Germany rolled onto his back and Italy sprawled over him, his forearms pillowing Germany's head. Delicate fingers slid through those mussed, gold locks as Germany stroked his love's roan hair.

They held each other in comforting silence; soaking up the affection the other gave. This was not the time- neither had the strength right now. Not yet. The right time kept slipping from their grasp. So how long must they wait?

* * *

><p>The room was painted in soft, warm glows when Germany woke up late that afternoon. His side was cradled as always by that cheerful, foolish, love of his. Still, hunger rumbled in his stomach, the muscles in his back yearned to be stretched, and his lungs wanted to fill entirely. Germany allowed this, feeling gratitude that these things were possible. He had no intention of disturbing Italy, but that could not be helped, and the smaller Nation woke and stretched the sleep out anyway.<p>

"Ve~ Germany, are you hungry? Let's get something to eat."

"You read my mind." Italy tilted his head at this, and Germany chuckled. "I mean to say that I feel the same way. It's just an expression." Germany drew him into a quick embrace, and Italy bobbed his head in comprehension. Sometimes, just sometimes, Germany had to wonder about his lover.

"Does anybody know a five-letter word for 'salutations'?" America looked up from the newspaper that took up over half the table, covering things like business mail and cloth napkins that should have been pitched in the laundry days ago. That was the third thing about the kitchen that Germany noticed. The first was that it was a great deal noisier than the rest of the house, and the second thing was that it was a great deal warmer.

"Try 'hello,'" England replied. "Oh, you two woke up, feeling better then?" he said when Germany and Italy appeared in the doorway.

Germany's _"Ja"_ was drowned out by Italy's "Yep! When are we going to eat?"

"When the food is done, stupid! You guys were sure taking your time about getting up- _what were you doing, Potato Bastard?_"

Easing himself into a chair at the tacky chrome-and-laminate kitchen table (which France goaded America on every time they visited, and Germany feared breaking in his long-standing bad habit of pounding the table for emphasis) Germany gazed lazily at Romano. "Resting," he answered. Romano glared at him, not focusing on the task of feeding his turtle. "The crickets are escaping, by the way."

Romano turned to the glass tank, where his pet was swimming, trying to meet Romano through the glass. He saw the three shiny, black insects bobbing around on the counter and cursed, trying to catch them again. "Mind your own business!"

Germany caught the hint, and nodded. "America, come. There is something I should discuss with you."


	18. Chapter 18 Reasoning

**Author's Note: You know what's awesome? A working internet. Like the one I'm posting this on. Right now. You know what's unawesome? Paying $50 a month for shitty internet that you can't use half the time. Like the one I pay for. Right now. And am not using because of its shittiness. This is why I haven't posted in a while. Thank you, source of unlocked internet somewhere near where I live. You can make life so much better if you try. 3 I don't own APH, yadda yadda yadda.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 18: Reasoning**

"Dude, so what is it?" Germany led him to one of his parlors, where he sank deeply into the sofa. America knew that he was suffering a lot a grief; still, this seemed heavier than usual.

"America… Romano asked me to speak to you." He made eye contact with America for only a second, and pursed his lips.

America furrowed his brow, taking a seat in an easy chair. "Romano? He can come to me for anything- why'd he ask you?"

"He felt it would be better expressed if it came from me." Germany leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers. His gaze was downcast.

"Dude, I thought you were totally into Italy."

"That's not it!" Germany's eyes flashed angrily at America; was it really that big of a mistake he made? "_Nein_, he's worried about that senator of yours that you've been talking with recently. McCarthy,*" Germany supplied after he saw the confusion on America's face. Germany wore his don't-you-dare-not-look-at-me face. "He's dangerous."

America was genuinely befuddled. "Joey? What d'you mean? He's been great for flushing out Commies-"

"Commies that only he found out. If your government is truly self-monitoring, then I highly doubt that they'd go about announcing their slip-ups to the world. Two hundred-five is an awful lot to penetrate a single department."

"They could have really secret about it." These things Germany was saying was just ludicrous, America couldn't believe it. "They could all be working together."

"Use your head, _dummkoff!_ That would take an enormous amount of organization to pull off, not to mention that how much effort needed to effectively cover it all!" His expression darkened. "This list may be more of a bid for power than a genuine concern for your people."

America blinked. "Dude, are you seriously saying that McCarthy-"

"He's playing to people's _fears_, America. Turning neighbor on neighbor- and who of your people will dare to question him openly?" Germany kept his eyes on America, but unlocked his fingers and picked at the scar on his wrist. It made a dry, dull, nauseating sound. America said nothing, but he still couldn't believe that the senator was as bad as they thought.

"Well, we're not _killing_ them for it, are we?"

Germany tensed, jaw held tight, and he was breathing loudly through his nose. "Not outright. No." His words came in brickish syllables. "But- when you are stripped of your livelihood- when you have no means to provide for your family, when you are abandoned by your friends and community and _punished_ for something that no one has bothered to check its legitimacy, America- _you are dying. _You are starving, you are cast out, and your reputation is destroyed. You are dying and it is a slow, painful and **very** humiliating death."

Dead silence followed that speech. America could think of nothing to say. He simply stared off into space, barely aware that Germany was doing just the same.

"Erm…" Both men gave a small start. England was standing nervously in the doorway. "Dinner's ready, if you don't mind. I thought I'd come tell you."

"Oh, okay," America said in an unusually quiet tone.

"_Ach,_ _danke,_" Germany stood up first and followed the other man. As he passed America, he patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Not to jump down your throat, we just want you to be careful."

America followed the other Nation with his eyes. "Yeah, thanks," he said.

* * *

><p>Belarus had never felt so nervous about anything in her life. She sat on a downed log and shuffled her feet about. The others slept in the dark camp, one of them occasionally shifting or murmuring in their dreams. She wasn't on guard- although appointing one of those would be a good idea- she just couldn't sleep. Her eyes were crusty and heavy; Belarus's tears could well up at any time.<p>

Where was her brother? Rolling a knife at it's handle in between her palms, the small Nation wished for at least a fire to guard her against the crawl of the night air on her skin. She shuddered, and tried to hide deeper in the heavy winter coat she draped around herself. The fire of Russia's house still stung the darkness, mocking her.

Mocking… _her! Belarus! _Not only had those fiends who called themselves Russia's friends took him away, they left him without a home! And where was she supposed to move to when she and her brother marry? She would find her brother again, and when she did- one hand wrapped its fingers around the hilt of the knife, tightening their grip around an imaginary throat- there will be Hell to pay.

Yes, for every cut, for every bruise, for every broken bone they inflicted on her beloved brother- Belarus saw the image of her brother in her head, limp, cold, and weak from starvation and blood loss. Worry turned to rage, and that knot in her stomach snapped, rocketing up out of her in a fury-fueled scream that sent the forest nightlife into hiding.

"_GAH!"_ Belarus snapped to the cry, knife flying from her hand and burying it deep into a tree.

"_SCHEI__ßE!"_ The pallid face and hair of the albino jumped up in the darkness, and then slowly began sinking down. She could feel his wary stare fixed on her. As a matter of fact, everyone was awake and acted like they'd seen a ghost.

There was a strained whimper just below where the knife struck. "Miss Belarus?" That was the stupid voice of Latvia. "Is s- something wrong?"

That was a stupid question to ask. "What do you think? Just mind your own business." Belarus turned back around, and harrumphed. "What's got you all worked up?"

Prussia cleared his throat, and said, "Well, in between the scream and the other scream and the lethal projectile flying in our direction, and the whole predicament we're in _in general_, quite a lot, actually." He ended with a sigh that turned into a yawn. "Why are you up?"

"On watch, you idiot."

Estonia stirred. "Good idea. I'll take over; get some rest, Miss Belarus." Belarus hesitated.

"I can't sleep," she offered, her shoulders sagging. There was a sad silence that grew over everyone. Slowly, Prussia stirred the stillness.

"Being… separated- from your family is the worst thing in the world. Believe me, I know. But you've got to get your rest, Bela- to keep your strength up. Just try, it's for your brother, right?"

She stiffened. The arrogance of the man! "_Whatmakesyouthinkyouknow?"_ She spun around where she sat, eyes flashing.

Prussia sat up and nudged his way over to where his feet rested, and took a seat cross-legged. In his cupped hands, he cradled his little bird, gently petting it with his thumb. Prussia spoke so softly that he could barely be heard over the chirps of the crickets. "Because you'd do anything for your brother- right now you're giving up your safety to save Russia. I know what you're going through: I chose to do the same for West."

Belarus sat there, stunned at the gentleness of his words. She had forgotten how delightfully Russia had mused over the man's decision when he became her brother's captive. She only ever knew of Prussia as an arrogant, perverted showoff that was only concerned himself with his own desires. What she saw here, in an hour so dark and a forest so forbidding was a pale figure, calm and constant and solemn. Her head fought against this image of a composed Prussia, but she could only sense the presence of a man who _understood_. To realize this about Prussia was an… _unnerving_ _feeling_."

Slowly, Belarus stood up and walked to a clear spot, curled up where she lay, and with her eyes closed, offered up a silent prayer for her brother.

* * *

><p>"Austria, do not think I will not join my people in their revolution, aru." China glared meaningfully at his charge, disgusted with the man's old-fashioned ways. Austria was really getting on his nerves lately.<p>

"Well, this is still a perfectly good house," the European Nation tried to reason. "As are all the other buildings that Mao is having destroyed. It's a horrible waste, and you of all of us should know how hard it is for humans to remember our pasts." He shrugged and let his hands fall to his sides noisily.

China spat. "And carry into the future any clues to the wrongful ways to govern, aru?" Who did Austria think he was, trying to act like he knew what wisdom was?

"I've never heard of an art historian politician, but you'd have to be one in order to glean any sort of information of a past governing system from their architecture. And Greece hardly counts, he's far too contented to sleep on dirt and rock to be bothered with grandiose ideas."

"Silence, you fool. You haven't seen four thousand years of corruption," if China were European, he would say that he was seeing red- he never thought that Austria could be so nosy and hardheaded. "There's too much risk in letting them stand; someone will get ideas."

"Then let them serve as a warning against future tyrants, China!" Austria huffed and hissed at him. "You're _going _to get someone who'll do anything to get power no matter what you do! Someone at some point is not going to play by the same rules as everyone else. And… and if your people have no stories to teach them that these things happen, then what are they going to do about it? They'll have to learn it all over again."

China blinked. It was a solid argument. However… "Not if it never occurs to them that disobedience is an option." China took pride that Austria was visibly startled by the pronouncement.


	19. Chapter 19 Rescue

**Author's note: Hey guess what! I'm finally graduating! Yup, my last semester has been what's been keeping me away for so long. It's a real drain on time, energy, and imagination. But I'm back now, and the only thing threatening to separate us in the future is me getting a job that zaps me of energy. Well, I haven't got one yet so in the meantime I can start posting again. I don't own APH, etc.**

**The Chronicles of the Aftermath**

**Chapter 19: Rescue**

There were days out in the Russian wilderness when Prussia wished he had thought to bring a straight razor. Aside from allowing the ability to wipe the sweat off his face, a daily shave would have offered some small comfort of normality to his life.

Even as an ex-Nation, Prussia found himself repulsed by the nomadic life- while battles or diplomacy occasionally drew them away from their lands, Nations were by nature the types to put down roots. It was all fine and dandy if you were a Nomad like Gypsy or Sami _sure,_ but the Nomads were… _kinda creepy _that way- a people without a home…

The small group of five had to move fast and erratically, trying not to make their paths too predictable. On the other hand, they still had to find Russia. The balance was a difficult aim to achieve, especially when they had to travel through towns to find what meager supplies they could restock with. Belarus and Prussia had to remember to act like lowly homeless (the Baltics pulled off humility very well), not to mention the problem of Prussia's unmistakable coloring. No doubt they were wanted by the KGB, and the tell tale of the group would be the albino. But Lady Luck smiled upon them, and Prussia promised, when all the stupidity was done with, he'd like to talk to America to see if he couldn't pay her a visit. _Vegas, baby_- gambling your money away was way more awesome than gambling your life.

The Autumnal equinox had already passed and the chill in the air bit a little harder with each passing day. In an alleyway of Moscow, after the sun sank in its daily retreat, the five Nations huddled together for warmth, sharing some stale bread between them. They were not too far from the street, but were still invisible to the authority of the man in the military regalia. The man himself huddled against the cold, fishing a cigarette out and lit it, hands cupped against the wind. Latvia, who had been watching the man out of the corner of his eye, motioned to the others when a convoy vehicle stopped in the street. The motor sill running, the driver leapt out of the cabin, saluted, and entered into conversation with the first man. Still munching on their bread, the Nations turned their ears to the soldiers, hoping for the least bit of information. What they got was the mother-load.

"Ah, Sir, we were looking for you. They want your opinion on the Braginsky freak."

Make that the Mother Russia load. Prussia quickly laid a hand on Belarus's shoulder, barely shaking his head 'no' when her glare turned to him. The first man agreed to pay a visit and the two turned to the cabin, the first man taking the passenger's seat.

Prussia didn't know how the five Nations didn't make a sound when they made a break for the back of the truck, but they all managed to swing up before the truck pulled away. There was no sound coming from them, and they listened for the obliviousness of the two in front. It was then that Belarus snapped. Prussia only heard the screech of metal being torn away, a surprised dying gasp, and the muffled shout.

"Just keep driving," he heard the girl growl. "Keep going where you were headed, and you increase your chances of surviving." Prussia got the feeling that the driver was all too willing to accommodate for Belarus's orders. With the world being nothing but a wall of black to him, Prussia decided to sit back and get some shut-eye. He settled back, letting the rumble of the truck lull him to sleep.

"Get up, you lump. We're there." Prussia received a nasty toe to the ribs.

"Ow! Okay, okay, I heard you; I'm up." Getting his heels underneath him, Prussia pushed himself up, following Belarus out of the back with his gaze. One quick look behind him told Prussia that the driver's chances were not high enough.

"Prussia, change into his clothes." Estonia motioned to the driver, blood trickling down the back of his neck. Estonia had already stripped the passenger of his uniform and donned it on himself. He was completely unaware that had happened- talk about a catnap.

Prussia shrugged, and hauled the body over the back of the seat. "There's no way in Hell I think this'll work, but your call." When finished and armed with the man's firearm, he leapt out the back and the group started off. The night wore on and they were both gifted and hindered by the moonless sky. For Prussia, it didn't make any difference anyway; his hearing became more sensitive than most, turning his head left and right. He heard the expanse of the space, the dew slipping across the grass in their wake, the nerves in the rustle of the Baltic's clothes, and the determination of Belarus. He could hear the blood in his veins pace with the anticipation of battle.

"Move faster!" Belarus hissed.

Lithuania was gasping for air, "We can't see too far ahead, Miss Belarus. Besides, we need the energy to make the getaway." Prussia and Estonia grunted in agreement, but Latvia whimpered. He lagged behind the rest. What a wimp.

"Quit yer bitchin'," Prussia snapped at him. "If you think saving Russia is crazy, imagine what he'd be like if they got to do all they wanted to him." As expected, the only one who had any response to that was Belarus. And that response was to shriek madly and jump to the head of the group, storming forward.

" 'All they want to him?' Those- _SADISTIC PERVERTS!_ We've got to hurry!"

Between the four men, in the moment that followed, a telepathic event occurred. They never discussed it afterward. Eventually the building stood over them on the low rise, and they slowed their pace, alert for anyone one and anything. The only obstacle between them and it was a razor-wire fence, and a gate guard.

Instinctively, Prussia and Estonia took to the front in the stolen uniforms. As they neared the gate, the guard failed to notice them. Walking up to him, they noticed the stench of vodka on his breath, although he somehow managed to pass out while still leaning against the post. Belarus gave the man mercy (as she put it), and Lithuania got a new disguise.

Inside the gate, an idea occurred to Prussia. "Belarus," he spoke in a low voice, "how good are you at feigning fear? There might be a chance that they won't recognize you, and think you're just some common prisoner."

"Why not just kill the bastards?"

"Let's avoid attention as long as possible, it increases our chances of saving your brother."

Belarus '_ah'_ed and nodded curtly. Then she stopped in her tracks, and fished around her pockets. "Then take these." She pulled out four knives and held them out to the other Nations. "One stab at the base of the skull is enough. If you are quiet, they won't even know what happened." Prussia pursed his lips into a scowl: the whole operation wasn't his style and didn't meet his standards for honor, but he took a knife anyway. The Baltics reached for theirs more nervously. Everyone took up their positions again and entered the building.

Belarus's idea proved indispensible. The prison warden barely had a chance to look up from his newspaper before that the owner of that sweet little face plunged her knife up into his jaw and far deeper. It came free with a small twist to break the suction. She wiped the blade off on a dry part of the man's sleeve.

"Can't we just knock them out, or something?" Latvia still hung back.

" 'Dead men tell no tales.'" Estonia reached over the red river, slipping the man's pistol out of its holder. "Take this, Latvia. We'll need it later, I think." Estonia searched the pockets for the keys, and retrieved them. The man impressed Prussia; it looked like he was getting the hang of it. Prussia snatched up the clipboard and from the desk and handed it over to Lithuania.

"Find Russia's cell number. I'm still adjusting to the light," Prussia said, straining his ears for sounds further in.

"Braginsky, one-fifty-one."

Belarus grunted. "Let's go then."

In formation, they slipped through the hall eyes casually glancing at the numbers on the doors until Estonia turned abruptly toward one, and fished out the keys. There was a jingle of metal, and the lock gave way. He and Lithuania took guard outside as Prussia, Belarus and Latvia slipped in.

Although Prussia could spare Russia no sympathy as his captive, the scene before him made his gut quail. Belarus practically leapt across the small room, hovering over her brother. Russia was pale, he had as little color left in him as Prussia had, and his shallow breaths were catching before they reached his blue-tinged lips. He was shirtless, and an inflamed ridge of flesh rose from an operational scar, looking particularly repulsive over the heart and visible ribs. Prussia pursed his lips and swallowed back his bile- in this century there had been far too many leaders who should have never been.

"Brother! Brother!" He was being dredged to the surface of awareness, but all Russia wanted to do was sink back down again. "Brother, wake up!" There was someone shaking his shoulders, and the silt of sleep was loosened around him. How sore his throat was. He opened his eyes and rolled his head around. Faces focused. Belarus. Russia almost screamed at the sight of his sister, but someone clamped a hand over his mouth.

"_SHHH! _It's us. Stay quiet." It was that albino of his, Prussia, plus an unkempt beard. "We figured they got you when you didn't show up." Slowly Prussia removed his hand. "It's nighttime; we have to move quickly and quietly if you want to escape. Can you get up?"

Russia opened his mouth to speak, but all he issued was a wispy rasp. It was then that he remembered: they wanted to silence the populace and stop his screams, so they severed his vocal chords. Russia shook his head. He got his knees under him, when the other two realized he was handcuffed and ankle-chained. One fierce cut of the knife and two carefully aimed bullets solved that. His sister and the two satellite Nations hauled him to his feet and before he knew it, they charged out the door.

"Shit, why'd you fire?" the guard on one side of the door had Lithuania's voice, and in the flurry of movement, Russia thought the other looked like Estonia.

"Shackles, and we need to run fast." Prussia snapped, already hurrying down the corridor; he slung Russia's arm around his shoulder and supported the small of Russia's back, dragging him along. Belarus pulled him by the other hand.

"Well, we do now! Why couldn't you have waited till we got outside?" Russia's head pounded, he was blind by the head rush, and he couldn't get a proper breath in.

"I'll plan further ahead next time." One of Prussia's typical curt replies. "Now _RUN!_"

"What?" came the squeak of Latvia's voice. Russia heard the distant pounding of feet, and he got his straightened out. They bolted this way and that, shots being fired every time a figure would appear in the distance, but the faculty doors came into blessed view. It was Estonia and Lithuania who swung them open, and as the others bolted out, they slammed them shut. It was a straight shot to the open gate, and beyond that was the cover of darkness. Russia couldn't feel anything but the pounding scream of escape.

Into the night they ran, down a slope of wet grass. They kept their slip ups to a sharp hiss, and paid the bumps and bruises no mind. Ahead in the darkness, a convoy sat parked before them, and there Lithuania broke off from the group, leaping up onto the foot board of the cabin, opening the door and hauling a body out of the front seat. The others dragged Russia along to the back. Prussia and Estonia gave him, Latvia and Belarus a leg up before swinging up themselves. "_GO!_" shouted one of them, and the truck roared to life, jerking them around as it started to move.

The sudden jarring shook off Russia's adrenaline rush. He didn't realize how badly his heart was pounding; it felt ready to rupture. His lungs burned and his skull weighed down on him. He felt himself hitting the floor, dizzy, gasping and coughing at the strain. He then felt the warm presence of others huddling around him, and he couldn't stay awake any longer. Russia sighed. He was safe.


End file.
